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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25863040">'til you come (into the water)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy'>gingerteaandsympathy</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>(even when i'm not writing about that i'm still writing about it), Bathtub Sex, F/M, First Time, Fred Weasley Lives, Not Epilogue Compliant, Not Underage, Order of the Phoenix (Harry Potter), Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, because let me just get it out there, my usual nonsense... now with added bubbles!</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-12</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 07:28:43</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>19,246</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25863040</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/gingerteaandsympathy/pseuds/gingerteaandsympathy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p><em>And she smiled. Just a little bit, but it was enough to spark his own. She was so bright all the time, so</em> much, <em>no matter how she tried to hide it. She filled up the space before him completely, for all he towered over her. Magic crackled around her hair and poured out of her fingertips, making him feel sort of—</em></p><p> <em>Sort of invincible. When he was near her, it felt like anything could be possible.</em></p><p> <em>And what a dangerous thought.</em></p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hermione Granger/Fred Weasley</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>63</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>414</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>'til you come (into the water)</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>i was chatting with my beloved friend on discord the other day (hi, thinky!) and i complained, "every <em>other</em> ship has tons of gratuitous prefect's bath smut! how come <em>my</em> ship doesn't have tons of gratuitous prefect's bath smut??" and we agreed that this oversight was a travesty. (though i'll admit that i did exactly zero research to back up my claims, i just <em>claimed</em> them. i should run for president!) anyway, this dearth of content was proclaimed a tragic circumstance that had to be remedied post haste!</p><p>and then, because i am who i am—that is, a mere flawed mortal—i sat down and wrote approximately 10k words of not-smut.</p><p>and then i spent several agonized days pacing around my apartment, utterly disrupting our discord conversations, panicking because i'm actually <em>quite rubbish at writing smut.</em></p><p>you see, it's an art form i just... haven't mastered. (which means i get to call this "practice.") (which is perhaps the only merit this gargantuan monstrosity has.) anyway, i had a bit of a crisis, realized i couldn't work on literally any other project until i had finished this one, came to terms with my own limits and strengths, and ultimately wrote something i don't completely hate! </p><p>all because i wanted two fictional characters to have sex in a bubble bath!!</p><p>so, friends: here it is. a 19k-word, semi-pornographic disaster, for your reading pleasure.</p><p>(another note on top of the former note: i self-edit, so all mistakes are mine. luckily, that means the good parts are, too. usually. thinky often helps.)</p><p>(another note on top of the other note; this note pile is getting precarious: this is not underage, but i understand that the line can be thin and the proximity can make people uncomfortable. these are, within the bounds of my fictional world, two people capable of consent—one having gotten to his age the usual way, and one having gotten there with some misuse of a time turner—who are still in an academic environment. as i have written them, they are about the same age (17); hermione might be a little bit older than him. i tend to enjoy that headcanon. but if this fic taking place during OOTP squicks you in any way, be warned.)</p><p>goodness. okay, no more rambling. what is this, a copyright disclaimer circa 2008? onwards!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> </p><p>Hermione Granger spent a bloody long time in the bathroom.</p><p>Normally, he wouldn’t notice this sort of thing; there were loads more interesting happenings around the castle, the Marauder’s Map was practically packed full of them. Unexpected feet overlapped in broom cupboards, professors lingered in one another’s offices long past curfew, and Peeves was nearly always somewhere he wasn’t supposed to be. Hogwarts was densely populated with petty mysteries, some of which Fred Weasley might even have been interested in solving.</p><p>But for some reason, <em>this </em>piece of information struck him as the oddest: the Brightest Witch of Her Age spent over an hour in the old Prefect’s Bath on the third floor, <em>every single Friday. </em>Without fail, while her classmates were off doing Merlin knows what—snogging, probably, and playing Exploding Snap and trying not to get caught by the Inquisitorial Squad—she disappeared into the private bathroom and did… what, exactly, he didn’t know.</p><p>Curiosity, of course, was his currency. Literally. It was how he could afford to buy Ginny new school books—how he mostly managed to cast off hand-me-downs—how he managed to buy sweets for his friends and pranks from Zonko’s to deconstruct and improve. It was the start-up capital on which his and George’s joke shop was being built. He was a curious bloke, and it had served him well his entire life. So, while he understood that witches ought to be allowed their secrets, he also felt that Granger was up to something. <em>If </em>he knew the witch at all.</p><p>Which he liked to think he did.</p><p>After four years of steady observation and one extremely confusing summer spent living in especially close quarters, he thought he knew her rather well. Certainly well enough to know that she wouldn’t risk the all-seeing ire of Umbridge and her ilk for no reason.</p><p>His conviction made the decision to go and investigate almost shockingly easy.</p><p>So, he made his excuses to the lads and sneaked out of the common room, quite unnoticed.</p><p>The entire walk down to the third floor, he pondered what he might find there. What would bring her back, week after week, since the start of term? A potion, maybe? If she was working on it that long, it must’ve been a real nightmare—probably something dangerous. He’d have to step carefully.</p><p>She <em>could’ve </em>been meeting someone who didn’t show up on the Map, although it was unlikely. But that just made it more terribly interesting, really, if she <em>was </em>meeting someone. Perhaps a special sort of creature, one that couldn’t be detected by the Marauder’s impressive magic: like the basilisk or something. Or a Muggle. Would Muggles show up on the Map? He added it to his list of questions to ask Remus, next time he went to Grimmauld Place.</p><p>There was also the possibility that she was just… the sort of person who would seek out the privacy and quiet of a secluded loo on a busy Friday night. That she sat there and did something bonkers, like meditate for an hour, or stare at the walls, or cry. <em>Hopefully </em>she didn’t cry; the very thought made something pinch under his ribs. But Granger didn’t seem like she had much patience for an hour sitting there, doing <em>nothing. </em>And seeing how humidity was bad for books, he couldn’t think of anything else that would occupy her so long in an empty room.</p><p>His thoughts went on in this manner—<em>Is she working on some sort of ongoing Transfiguration project? Turning ectoplasm into bog roll and back again?</em>—all the way down several flights of stairs; along a few long, and luckily empty, corridors; around a staircase; and right to the door of the Prefect’s Bath.</p><p>Which was locked.</p><p>“<em>Alohomora,</em>” he whispered, his wand sliding out of his sleeve and between his fingers. The lock, to his surprise, clicked open with a muted noise. But he only had a moment to worry that she’d heard him: the small sound was immediately swallowed by the rush of running water. She was clearly filling some sort of basin with it. He could hear the gurgle of liquid through the taps, the slap of water hitting more water—it carried out into the hall, clear as anything. But even if he didn’t hear <em>that</em>—</p><p>There was her voice. Humming. He didn’t recognize the tune—maybe something off the Muggle radio—but it was soft-sounding, easy and bright. The humming faded in and out, like she was stitching together bits and pieces of a song into a tuneless melody of her own devising. It sounded… quite nice, actually.</p><p>And then.</p><p>There came the familiar scent of vanilla, too muted to come from a potion, filling the air around him, carried on a billow of pale steam. He could make out… honey, too—a clean, sweet clover smell. He breathed in deeply before he could help himself, great lungfuls of familiar-scented air.</p><p>He’d smelled it practically every day in the one decent bath at Grimmauld Place.</p><p><em>Oh, </em>he realized.</p><p>Fred’s fingers froze on the handle, his mouth slack with shock—and embarrassment, or something like it. Because there was, apparently, no mystery. No potion, no project. As far as he could tell, Granger spent every Friday night… taking a <em>very </em>long bath.</p><p>And that was all.</p><p>Heat crept into his cheeks, though he couldn’t say why he was so flustered at the realization. It had been simple curiosity, of course. And now it was—an awareness. Disbelief. A little bit of mortification. It traveled through him at light speed, and he abruptly began pulling the door shut, very nearly forgetting to do it quietly. He clicked the lock back in place—preserving her privacy was the least he could do—but then he didn’t move.</p><p>He didn’t do anything except stand there and breathe and let the vanilla dissipate from both his lungs and his brain. He stood perfectly still for almost ten entire seconds—which, for him, was an awfully long time.</p><p><em>That can’t be it, </em>the logical part of his mind reasoned. <em>It can’t be that simple.</em></p><p>This was, after all, <em>Granger </em>he was dealing with. Undoubtedly the most fascinating witch he knew. Her mind was rarely not working a million problems, her hands rarely still. There was simply no way there wasn’t something else going on in there. Whatever it was simply involved filling an entire bathtub.</p><p>A smirk stole over his lips, silent and unwitnessed, as he rolled onto the balls of his feet and rubbed his hands together. The familiar need to make mischief reared up inside him: a plan began to form.</p><p>If there was more to Granger’s unnaturally long evenings in the bath, he’d find out.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>She didn’t really like Fridays.</p><p>In theory, they were a brilliant opportunity to kick-start a weekend of studying: a time to pre-outline new notes and give an introductory skim to the relevant textbooks. But lately, she hadn’t felt much like studying—or, more accurately, she’d felt like studying her usual amount and <em>not one jot more.</em></p><p>She blamed the flagging of her usually ravenous academic interest on Umbridge. On the woman’s complete lack of intellectual curiosity, her lapsed standards of scholastic rigor, and the general sour pallor she cast over her classrooms. Hogwarts, for Hermione, had always been a refuge—a place where she could succeed, if she just tried hard enough. And now, Hogwarts was just another place for her to be passed over and patronized. It was hardly a school at all, in her view, having been transformed into an institution of indoctrination and indecency, where students were being bullied when they weren’t being totally ignored. It was scandalous, really, and she had half a mind to start a petition—but who, in the Ministry or elsewhere, would read it? Much less <em>do </em>something about the problem.</p><p>And so, week after week, her muscles knotted from the effort of keeping her head down, not rocking the boat. Books were no longer the only weight she bore. In fact, the tension she carried now came from something much less intriguing than tomes about Ancient Runes: she was simply… angry. Angry and <em>exhausted. </em>The bone-deep fatigue had initially driven her into the seldom-used Prefect’s Bath in search of solace, and it had continued to drive her there, no matter what else came up to distract her. Her evening baths were the one thing—the one part of each endless and unsatisfying school week—that she looked forward to.</p><p>Hermione took care to dull the sound of her footsteps as she darted from one corridor to the next, her clean clothes wadded up under her arm, wrapped securely within in a fluffy towel. She could get one of the elves to see to them, of course—it would be less obtrusive than running through the halls with her knickers crumpled in her hands—but the idea of asking for their help when they already did <em>so much, </em>and unpaid, was grating.</p><p>Anyway, she liked to charm her things herself, make sure they couldn’t be nicked. It had happened before, though not to her. She may have had an arrangement with Moaning Myrtle—some Muggle romance novels, enchanted to turn their own pages, left in the appropriate stall—but that didn’t mean she trusted all the other apparitions to stay out of her evening ablutions.</p><p>When she opened the heavy door to the Prefect’s Bath, she was so preoccupied by her Myrtle-related concerns that she didn’t properly notice the warning signs. That is, the steam. Or the smell. Or the smudgy shape beyond the steam, undeniable proof that her beloved bath was already occupied.</p><p>With a muttered <em>Lumos, </em>she watched the light arc into several torches rounding the giant room before she finally blinked out of her reverie and noticed that the tub was full—warm and waiting. And—</p><p>“Oh!” she cried, understandably startled.</p><p>There was a body in the water—one with two long, pale arms that stretched along the lip of the tub like sand meeting surf.</p><p>Immediately, she was struck with suspicion. <em>No one </em>used this bathroom; not even the other Prefects, who had just as much of a right to it as she, bothered with the one on this floor. It was located behind an inconvenient staircase, where most people couldn’t even find it. And it didn’t have nearly so many soap and bubble taps, instead favoring a more simple, stripped-down sort of affair. Just a few common scents.</p><p>But someone <em>had </em>found it—someone in the bath, <em>her bath, </em>who she could hardly make out properly through the swirling steam.</p><p>“Oh,” echoed the person—rather, the <em>boy; sweet Circe, </em>she’d walked in on a <em>boy</em>—who had so callously interrupted all her plans for the evening. He turned, glancing back over one broad shoulder to grin at her, and she recognized the shape, blurred as it was: that mouth, those teeth, the lines and shapes that mapped him out.</p><p>
  <em>No.</em>
</p><p>“Fancy meeting you here, Granger.”</p><p>
  <em>No sodding way.</em>
</p><p>It took her approximately three seconds to cobble together a reply that wasn’t just an incoherent screech, but when she managed, she was quite proud of herself. “Well, I know for a fact that you’re <em>not </em>a Prefect,” she answered, exuding a calm she absolutely did not feel. “Do I want to know how you broke into my bathroom?”</p><p>At that, Fred—<em>Fred Weasley, you enormous git</em>—chuckled and turned a bit further toward her, resting heavily on one arm. It was a very much bare arm, attached to a very much bare torso, and she wondered—fleetingly, somewhat madly—if she might be hallucinating. It wasn’t the <em>best </em>explanation, but it was the one that did <em>not </em>leave her locked in a bathroom with the boy she—<em>well.</em></p><p>
  <em>Well.</em>
</p><p>He grinned at her in his usual, Freddish way. “<em>Your </em>bathroom?”</p><p>“Fine, not <em>my </em>bathroom—but it’s also not <em>your </em>bathroom. I meant that it’s for Prefects, Heads of House, and Quidditch Captains, though of course, it’s the property of the castle, which is owned by—” but she was getting off topic. She interrupted herself with a huff. “<em>Honestly. </em>What are you doing here, Fred?”</p><p>“Well.” He began to answer with his usual eagerness. “I started to wonder about how the Great Hermione Granger spends her evenings. Let’s say I… received an anonymous tip about you spending lots of time hiding out in the bath, yeah?” He was talking about the Marauder’s Map, of course; she nearly rolled her eyes at his obviousness. Harry must have given it back to the twins this term. “I got a bit worried, you know—thought we might be having a repeat of the troll-in-the-lav incident,” he added with a wink. “Or the cat hair incident.”</p><p>She stuffed her mortification way down deep. He <em>would </em>find a way to bring up a years-old potions incident.</p><p>“How noble of you,” she answered crisply.</p><p>He snorted, finally turning back to the water. The loss of his gaze seemed to unstick her feet, and she suddenly became aware that she’d just been standing uselessly in the middle of the room, wand clenched tightly in her hand, staring at a probably-naked Fred Weasley. She watched as his body slid lower into the frothy water, arms stretching back out over the ledge with tremendous ease, his head drooping backwards like he hadn’t a care in the world.</p><p>Like he intended to stay a while, something inside her noted with a little thrill. <em>Thrill?</em></p><p>“No, honestly…” His voice sounded low and easy, like the water was really lovely and soothing, and she stepped closer to hear him. “I just figured you were… you know, up to something. Probably something interesting, almost certainly something illegal. I got curious.” She was close enough to make out some of the freckles dusting his shoulders and upper back—close enough to start wondering what the hell she was thinking, getting this close to a naked bloke in the bath. She just had so <em>seldom </em>had the opportunity to—well, to <em>observe </em>him. Properly.</p><p>Without having to be subtle about it.</p><p>Hermione shook her head. She hadn’t put down her clothes yet, they were still clutched to her chest, so there was still a chance to turn around. Run away.</p><p>But, <em>wait</em>—he was <em>curious? </em>About <em>her?</em></p><p>“I don’t suppose you could have just… asked me whether or not I was up to something,” she said, voice coming out flat and suppressed. The thought of him watching her on the Map, though, of him watching her bathe without <em>actually </em>seeing, made her feel a bit… discombobulated. When had he ever paid her any mind before?</p><p>Fred chuckled and shook his head, but didn’t look back at her; sparkling water droplets went soaring out of his hair. She couldn’t help but wonder what he’d been up to before she came in—had he jumped in straight away? Had he lowered himself in slowly, warm water crawling upwards, inch by inch?</p><p>
  <em>Stop it.</em>
</p><p>“Of course you couldn’t.” She did her best to sound put-upon. "You do realize we could get detention for this, if we're caught. Possibly even expelled."</p><p>“Yes, Miss Prefect, I am aware.”</p><p>“So, you decided it would be a fun prank to—what?” Hermione frowned in thought. “Interrupt my usual bath time and accuse me of nefarious plotting, risking both of our academic careers in the meantime?”</p><p>She was close enough now that the steam rolled up off the water, feeling heavy, smelling more strongly of whatever it was he’d put in it: sage, smelled like. Accompanied by a scent not entirely unlike burnt sugar. <em>His </em>smell.</p><p>“I haven’t <em>got </em>an academic career, witch, nor have I accused you of anything.” Fred laughed again, running a hand through the hair she’d just been not-looking-at. It was damp-dark and stuck up on the sides; she desperately wanted to fix it. “Though maybe I should,” he noted, cocking his head. “Paranoid much?”</p><p>Hermione resisted the temptation to roll her eyes. Of <em>course </em>he’d be blissfully unaware of the current politics swamping Hogwarts—the over-policed student body and oppressive “Educational Decrees.” Though how that could possibly be, when he himself had been part of Dumbledore’s Army and one of the major Undesirables, was beyond her.</p><p>Or maybe he knew and didn’t care; that <em>would </em>be like him.</p><p>Nonetheless, she bit out, “I’m not paranoid. I’m cautious.”</p><p>Though, in a blatant display of incaution, she set down her bundle of clothes on the usual spot: a dry ledge just a few feet away, where he wouldn’t be able to splash them. If he tried.</p><p>But why was she setting her things down? She dismissed the thought immediately.</p><p>“That you are, Granger. And rightly so: things have been… tense around the old castle lately, haven’t they.” It wasn’t a question. <em>Understatement of the century, </em>she thought.</p><p>Though, come to think of it, it <em>was </em>like him to take a more positive view.</p><p>Like <em>them</em>, actually—like the twins.</p><p>Because there were, in fact, two of them.</p><p>“No wonder you spend so much time in the bath,” he added, almost absently.</p><p>She forced down a blush and instead scanned the bathroom in silence, looking for George, or even something vaguely George-shaped, waiting to jump out and scare her into the steaming pool of water, soaking her straight through.</p><p>But she found nothing. No George. No George-shaped-lump. Nothing.</p><p>Just Fred, and the back of his red head.</p><p>“So, you <em>do </em>know why I come here—not to plot, to relax.” Hermione rolled her shoulders; she had this notion of keeping him talking, because there was a plan forming in the back of her mind. A bad plan, a <em>mad </em>plan, but she rather fancied the idea of startling <em>him </em>for once. Silently, she gave her wand a little flick, eyeing the room again to see if her spell had worked. It had. “And yet you decided to investigate anyway,” she griped good-naturedly, “not to mention throw a wrench in my Friday evening routine. That’s <em>very </em>rude.”</p><p>“What’s a wrench?”</p><p><em>Oh, bloody</em>—</p><p>“It’s a Muggle tool.”</p><p>“The kind you… throw?”</p><p>“Oh, hush, just answer the question. You came here to ruin my bath, didn’t you?”</p><p>“<em>Alright,</em>” he answered in a sing-song. An unbothered admission. One of his arms floated on the surface of the water now, long fingers outstretched and swirling the bubbles into unfamiliar, abstract shapes and peaks. “Maybe a little. I do so love ruining things—gives me a little thrill. But I’m mostly hoping you’ll take this opportunity to fill me in on your self-proclaimed ‘nefarious plot.’ Just because you’re not actively breaking rules while you’re<em> in</em> the bath—”</p><p>Though, as she'd made quite clear, she <em>was </em>breaking rules. Several. Just by standing so close to him. And she planned to break a few more yet.</p><p>“—doesn’t mean you’re not <em>planning </em>something. I mean, that thing you did with the <em>Protean Charm</em>—that was brilliant and required some planning. And if you’re cooking up something new—”</p><p>She waved her wand again, the clothes disappearing off of her body and reappearing, folded neatly beside her fresh clothes and towel. A light toss landed the length of vinewood right on top, waiting for her when next it was needed.</p><p>Hopefully she <em>wouldn’t </em>need it.</p><p>Voluntarily disarming herself in the same room as a Weasley twin… <em>Foolish.</em></p><p>Voluntarily stripping? Even more foolish.</p><p>Adrenaline rushed through her, and she had to bite back a grin.</p><p>Oh, but to <em>see his face.</em></p><p>“—I want in. I’m the expert here, when it comes to plotting,” he continued determinedly. “So, why don’t you say ‘hang the rules,’ just for tonight, and slip in for a soak, Granger—” and when his fingers tapped the water, stirring up the foam, she had to look away. She <em>had </em>to, or else she wouldn’t be able to pretend that she wasn’t affected by this—this stupid proximity, and the risk she was taking.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t look at his fingers.</em>
</p><p>Don’t <em>look at his fingers.</em></p><p>“—and we can plot together, yeah?”</p><p>Hermione paused.</p><p>She knew that tone; she knew when he was teasing, when he was baiting someone.</p><p>Though she hated more than anything to admit it—while admitting it right here, right now, was unbelievably stupid—she knew him so <em>unbearably </em>well. The git. Knew his every tone and shade of meaning. And he <em>didn’t </em>expect her to actually join him.</p><p>She was so close now—to him, to the water. Only a step away. The steam prickled her bare skin, gooseflesh rising all over, and she wondered how he couldn’t feel her proximity when she could feel <em>him. </em>Her heart nearly beat out of her chest with the desperate desire to escape, run away, despite her own delusions of bravery.</p><p>One long, wiry arm was still stretched out over the lip of the tub. All she had to do was step over it.</p><p>
  <em>This is a terrible idea.</em>
</p><p>Hermione hesitated for only a moment more before lurching into action—speaking simultaneously, so he didn’t have the chance to look back over his shoulder. “All right,” she agreed, forcing her voice to sound utterly natural, and to carry over the sound of the running water, and over the gentle splash of her bare foot breaking surface tension. <em>Ka-thunk.</em></p><p>She didn’t look at him. She just looked out at the bath, into the steam.</p><p>Her other foot followed. <em>Ka-thunk.</em></p><p>Standing calf-deep on the ledge, she hesitated for one moment more. Was he looking at her? What was he thinking?</p><p>And then the rest of her sank forward into the water, down into the shelter of the foam and bubbles. She breathed deep for a moment, and then leaned back—settling against the ledge and his warm arm. She scooted up <em>right </em>beside him.</p><p>And she still didn’t look at him.</p><p>Fred sat very still. Like he’d been Petrified. She could see out of the corner of her eye that his face was fully toward her, mouth slack.</p><p>She felt a rush of triumph. <em>Gotcha.</em></p><p>He should have known better than to challenge a Gryffindor girl.</p><p>The edges of her lips rose to form an impish little grin, but she did her best to smother it—wanting to look neutral, like this was nothing. It <em>was </em>nothing, she assured herself. She was an adult—the Time Turner and long years as the best friend of Harry Potter had seen to that—and nakedness was natural, really. She’d been on nude beaches in France before.</p><p>Granted, <em>she </em>hadn’t been the nude one.</p><p>And she hadn’t fancied anyone on the beach, obviously, because Fred wasn’t on the beach. And she fancied him. Fancied his pants right off, though perhaps thinking about it in the literal sense was a bad idea at the present moment.</p><p>But she was <em>familiar </em>with the concept of public nudity, and it wasn’t that frightening. Sure, her bath bubbles smelled wrong and she had a rather checkered history with the person hanging about beside her, gaping like a fish out of water, but really, it wasn’t much different from usual.</p><p><em>It’s really… sort of nice, actually, </em>she reasoned.</p><p>Or, she tried to reason.</p><p>Fred still hadn’t moved. And she felt like her bones were grinding as she slowly turned her head, her eyes, toward him. Her eyes which instinctively dropped to his open mouth, to his throat, to his chest.</p><p>His bare chest. <em>Merlin’s beard</em>, of course there would be more freckles. Freckles and muscle definition, to her extreme dismay.</p><p>Not even his chest was moving; not even with the smallest breath.</p><p>Looking away from him and his freckles and his stupid, <em>stupid </em>pectorals, she bit down on her bottom lip and strove for placidity. “So, what are we supposed to be plotting, naked in the bath?” She hated the way the word “naked” seemed to linger in her mouth, a little husky and a little pinched all at once; hopefully, she hadn’t gone too far. Merlin forbid she look foolish, like she was trying to seduce him or something.</p><p>Horrified at the idea, she swallowed through the lump in her throat.</p><p>He didn’t answer for a long, strained second. Twin pinpricks of color—not just any color: a bright, patchy pink—appeared on his cheeks, like two kisses placed by a lippy-wearing aunt. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched the flush spread.</p><p>But he recovered only a moment later, blinking rapidly. Recovered faster than she’d like; it wounded some little part of her feminine pride—though she didn’t have much, and she’d never put great stock in her so-called “womanly wiles.” He just swallowed and pushed harshly off the edge, his arm skimming the tops of her shoulders before paddling him out into the depths of the pool-sized bath.</p><p>Plenty of room between them now. More than sufficient for Umbridge’s restrictions; this would hardly even count as breaking rules, she thought glumly.</p><p>“Well,” he said, treading water even though it <em>couldn’t </em>be that deep out there. “Since you refuse to divulge your secrets, I suppose we're only left with <em>my </em>plots to work with. Lucky for you, I’ve got loads.” When he looked up at her, his eyes were so dark—darker than she’d ever seen them. But otherwise, he looked right as rain. No tension in his jaw. A bit of cheer in the curve of his lips. The usual mischief. Just two dark eyes, smoldering like coals and unnerving her utterly.</p><p>Which really undermined the whole thing where <em>her</em> presence in the bath was a prank on <em>him</em>, Hermione noted miserably.</p><p>Then again, she’d never been terribly good at pranking.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>
  <em>Bloody buggering hell.</em>
</p><p>His already hyperactive brain pushed into overdrive, losing the ability to focus on anything other than controlling his output—that is: not saying anything stupid. However, anatomically speaking, a few other, equally hyperactive bits seemed to have no trouble whatsoever in focusing on the naked, sudsy witch who'd dropped down beside him. Just sat down, so casually. Like it was nothing at all to do so.</p><p>Which was irritating, if not strictly surprising, given—well, everything. <em>Her.</em></p><p><em>Merlin’s left bollock, </em>he griped. <em>Circe’s tits on a Christmas tree. </em>And most of all: <em>Salazar’s </em>fucking <em>rod. </em>The mental swearing went on steadily until he’d successfully gotten out to the middle of the bath, where the foam was thinner and the air was clearer and the water was deeper. Where he could swim around aimlessly and work through the excess energy driving his brain and body. He stretched his limbs, trying to focus on the texture of the water and not on the texture of the skin he’d seen—swaths of skin, <em>miles </em>of skin, <em>Granger’s </em>skin—slipping into the Prefect’s Bath, completely unexpected. Uncovered.</p><p>What in seven hells was she <em>thinking?</em></p><p>The prank, Fred noted absently, seemed to be going completely awry, his plan crumbling into abstraction the moment her bare foot appeared beside his body. He was <em>supposed </em>to tease her, prod her about her plotting, maybe get her to confess, and then when she <em>inevitably </em>bullied him out of the bath, he’d clamber out of the water and reveal, in his opinion, a quite hilariously tiny—not to mention <em>definitely </em>sexy—swimming costume.</p><p>Prank accomplished. Information acquired, and one witch successfully teased.</p><p>He was supposed to see her blush. He <em>loved </em>when she blushed; Granger blushed better than anyone else he knew. Which made sense—she was a swot. Of <em>course</em> she'd excel at making him mental.</p><p>So, yes, there had been a plan, but Granger was <em>not </em>following it. Instead, he realized as he turned to look back at her, she was just <em>watching </em>him while he floundered about the pool like a great, heaving flobberworm. He was barely aware of what he said next—not exactly an uncommon occurrence when it came to Hermione Granger—but he was acutely aware of the way her eyes followed him, keen and bright, making him want to do something, do something <em>mad</em>—</p><p>“This is a <em>very </em>roundabout way of asking for my help, you know,” she commented, mouth twitching. It always did that when she was trying not to smile, like when she was scolding Ron for something inane or trying to give Harry serious advice that he’d have no proper clue what to do with.</p><p><em>What? Oh, right. </em>He'd mentioned so-called “plots” to distract himself from the actual reality of her <em>being in the bath. </em></p><p>“Don’t flatter yourself, Granger, I’m just taking advantage of an opportunity.”</p><p>“Of course you are,” she answered, utterly droll. “Why don't tell me where you’re hung up and I’ll try to help—so long as you’re not experimenting on students.” That last bit came out firmly, and he tried not to wince.</p><p>No matter his nonsense, she’d always seen through it. Because she was brilliant, and she was Granger, and she was brilliant, and she was <em>naked</em>, and she was brilliant. So brilliant, in fact, that she probably actually <em>could </em>help him with that thing—that thing he and George were planning to do—</p><p>The words spilled out before he could check them, before he could actually prepare for the disapproval that would surely follow.</p><p>“Nothing of the sort,” he promised. “Though I never thought I’d come to the Great Hermione Granger for help with dropping out.”</p><p>Silence. “You’re <em>what?</em>”</p><p>Exactly the response he expected, only it came even more scathing, her eyes narrowing sharply. This time, discomfort tugged his lips into a scowl.</p><p>Of course, he’d imagined telling her. He’d imagined bearing up nobly under Granger’s disapproval, because he was <em>right</em>, and he just had to convince her of that fact. He imagined telling her he fancied her in the same breath, had for ages, and he’d imagined giving her a sweeping kiss before diving onto his broom and soaring out of the castle, past the wards, his lips and his limbs buzzing.</p><p>He <em>certainly </em>hadn’t imagined telling her about his plan mostly-nude while standing in a giant bath, brain utterly empty and senses rapidly filling with the scent of her—of vanilla, and honey, and other things that might’ve been potions ingredients or might’ve just been <em>her</em>. The scent seemed to emanate from her hair, which she was doing up: twisting it on top of her head, all tangled with steam, and knotting it with a mumbled spell. The scent, the tension in her arms, the darkness of her eyes—it all filled his head with impulses he’d gotten pretty good at repressing. Until now. And those impulses wiped away all his good intentions, his hopes of logically explaining it all to her, laying it out clearly—completely gone.</p><p>He just wanted to tell her, and for her to understand.</p><p>“Georgie and I are leaving school,” he said, fighting to sound casual. “Soon, actually.”</p><p>A few curls, making a bid for freedom, went soundly ignored as her hands and body froze. Foam coated the undersides of her arms. And rising out of the water, the tops of her breasts, pale half-moons—</p><p>“You’re not serious,” she replied sharply. He blinked up at her face. <em>Oh, gods</em>—had he been staring? “You’re not actually dropping out of Hogwarts.”</p><p>On instinct, he flipped her a quick grin—slick and shiny. Reverting back to his default coping mechanisms came easy. “Why? Will you miss me, Granger?”</p><p>Watching her cheeks heat, her mouth gaping instead of forming a reply, shouldn’t have been so satisfying. And watching the suds drip off of her arms and pool in the water, coiling around her body, shouldn’t have been so—so <em>fascinating.</em></p><p>This was mental; <em>he </em>was mental.</p><p>“Don’t be ridiculous,” she finally managed, sounding a bit strangled, but not too far off from her usual, strung-tight Granger Tone of Disapproval. Her arms flopped down into the water.</p><p>
  <em>It’s not ridiculous. Will you?</em>
</p><p>But he didn’t ask.</p><p>“Why on <em>earth </em>would you leave school when you’re nearly finished? Why would you throw away seven years of study, on what? A <em>prank?</em>”</p><p>He frowned, frustration gathering in the tips of his fingers. He needed to move. He needed to make her understand.</p><p>The conflicting desires stole away his ability to speak, and instead, he shrugged his shoulders and dipped beneath the surface of the water. Submerged his head entirely. If George were here, he could explain, but he’d personally never been as good at this bit. Keeping his cool. Explaining the “why” of things, calmly and rationally. He was better with coming up with the “how.” Come to think of it, that was probably why it would <em>never</em>—not in a million years—work out with Granger.</p><p>He couldn’t escape her question entirely, but he had bought himself a moment to think. Safely under the layer of foam, the water was clear and pale blue, cut through with shafts of torchlight. In the distance, he could make out two arms, two legs, undulating in the distance. Blurred by the water, but unmistakably hers, like when she’d worn those shorts all summer—</p><p>
  <em>Bugger.</em>
</p><p>He was once again railroaded by the idea of Granger voluntarily getting into this bloody bath—her comfortable ease in his presence, like a few scant inches of foam and her assumption of his self-control weren’t the only thing between his eyes, her body, and something utterly unspeakable. The awareness was starting to become an insistent throb, running the blood straight out of his head.</p><p>He forced himself to resurface—a few meters further away, just to be on the safe side—and immediately sputtered out, “There’s nothing here for me, Granger.” He blinked away the foam, and her face came into shape. Inquisitive. Concerned. More than a hint of dismay there. My, but she really took his academic endeavors seriously. “I may not be banned from Quidditch myself, but it’s only a matter of time. I’ve got a temper, y'know, and I—well, anyway, it’s not worth the risk. And I’m certainly not sticking around just for Umbridge’s classes. Baby’s First Wand and all that rot.”</p><p>Granger snorted a low laugh, but the smile didn’t reach her eyes, no matter how hard he looked. Her hair had started to frizz with the steam, practically levitating out of its bun. And her mouth was taut, sad. <em>Double bugger.</em></p><p>
  <em>She’s sad and I’ve been thinking about biting into her thighs.</em>
</p><p>“Anyway, George and I are more useful out there. And if we can make enough of a scene—go out with a bang, so to speak,” he added, grinning fiercely, “maybe it’ll light a fire under a few arses. Remind them we’re not just kids. We’re not powerless.”</p><p>“So, you’re doing it for the sake of the Order.” She didn’t sound convinced. “For the fight against Voldemort.”</p><p>He hated the doubt he heard in her voice.</p><p>“I mean, yeah,” he nodded as his feet settled on the bottom of the bath, knees bent to keep him low as he walked. Because, damn him, he wanted to be closer. Like he could make it make sense just through proximity. Like his nearness would be a convincing argument. “Of course. It’s about getting back at Umbridge for—for everything she’s done to Dumbledore’s Army, to us, to the other students.” <em>To you. </em>“What she’s doing is—it's <em>sick.</em> Some of them are just <em>kids</em>—”</p><p>Fred swallowed convulsively as his stomach dropped, trying not to think about the marred skin he’d seen on the backs of dozens of little hands. Of the markings he knew he’d see if she held up her own hand. He’d been next to her in detention that day, glancing over at her desk when he thought he could get away with it, watching her face contort with the effort not to make so much as a <em>sound </em>while she wrote lines into her own flesh.</p><p>Beneath the water, his fists clenched and then released, and he stood a little taller, chest breaking out of the pool.</p><p>And Granger’s eyes dropped.</p><p>In a head rush, he realized she was looking at him—at his body, maybe, and undoubtedly at the little trails of water dripping down his stomach. He’d always been a bit on the narrow side, for a Beater, but the subtle bob of her throat wiped away any shred of self-consciousness, replacing it with something else. A thrumming in his chest.</p><p>He’d never really gone in for self-consciousness anyway. Probably never would again.</p><p>Her eyes were so wide, wider than they’d been mere moments ago. And she didn’t look away—just scanned him up and down with her own unique brand of focus, like he was a book for her to read.</p><p>Maybe it was a stretch to imagine that she liked what she saw. Maybe not.</p><p>But the truth was, he knew why it was so important that Hermione Granger believe him—why he wanted so desperately for her to understand his motives, and not to think he’d just leave them all behind for a prank. It was the same feeling that made him want to preen under her gaze. The same thing that drew his eyes to her name on the Marauder’s Map, day after day. The same reason he remembered the scent of her bath products, and took every chance to poke fun at her. Anything to make her <em>look at him.</em></p><p>There was precious little chance she’d ever see him how he’d like; pranks and laughs, that’s what he was good for. But the little hitch in her breathing when he broke the surface of the water—that look—</p><p>Well, it was certainly something for him to work with.</p><p>Clearing his throat, he took another step toward her. “That’s why George and I want your help. Well—” and he paused, struck with another wave of awareness. They were in a bath and she was very, <em>very </em>naked. And his twin was definitely not party to this little exchange, thank the gods. “<em>I </em>want your help.”</p><p>Her eyes dragged upwards, finally meeting his.</p><p>Had they ever been alone in a room before? Couldn’t have been, not if it felt like this—this weird and tingly and electric. He would have noticed. He <em>had </em>noticed, except it had always been dulled, diffused by everybody else.</p><p>They’d passed in the hallway once, at Grimmauld; she’d looked away.</p><p>Granger’s stare was unreadable, but her mouth twisted in a thoughtful way he was quite familiar with. She was biting her cheek—considering.</p><p>After a long moment, she sighed, crossing her arms over her chest. The water lapped at the skin of her forearms, leaving behind a thin trail of foam that he wanted to wipe away with his fingers. Maybe his tongue, if she fancied, though it might taste dreadful.</p><p>Or not. He wondered if she’d taste like vanilla. Vanilla and soap, probably.</p><p>There were worse things.</p><p>“Fine,” she said. Heavily. Her voice was so quiet that it tugged him a step closer. “What’s your plan?”</p><p>Now, this—</p><p><em>This </em>he could do.</p><p>He launched straight into an explanation, which was really more of a sales pitch, skimming over the undecided bits. “So far, the plan has three steps. First, we’re going to cause a distraction during one of the O.W.L. exams. <em>Yes,</em>” he nearly laughed, taking in Granger’s horrified expression. “I know. But it’s the best choice. The halls will be empty, and it’ll cause the maximum amount of devastation—you have to admit.”</p><p>“Disruption, more like.”</p><p>“Yes, well. That <em>is </em>the goal, Granger. Throwing Umbridge off schedule, giving the students a bit of fun. Besides,” he said fondly, “don’t tell me you’re actually looking forward to those bloody exams—you could pass them with your eyes closed and your wand tied behind your back, little witch, and we all know it.” The flattery was enough to relax her pursed lips, but she still looked at him with a hint of suspicion. He gave her his most winning grin before going on.</p><p>They were getting closer. Again. Not like before, when he’d been sitting beside her. Full-on. She had to tilt her head up to look at him properly, and he was just a few short steps from pinning her against the edge of the tub.</p><p>"Secondly—and this is the important bit—we're going to destroy <em>all </em>of Umbridge's decrees. Blow them right off that bloody wall."</p><p>His eyes flicked closed, and he could almost <em>see </em>the splintered wood, the flayed parchment. When they opened again, he’d somehow moved closer. Close enough to see the speckles of gold in her brown eyes. Why did that keep happening?</p><p>"It's a symbolic gesture, but a practical move as well. You see, it'll be harder to keep track of and enforce the rules without that wall. Plausible deniability and all that."</p><p>He was gratified by Granger’s dropped jaw. “But that’s a legal term. A <em>Muggle </em>legal term.”</p><p>“D’you know, Granger—I’m almost offended by your tone.”</p><p>She blushed brilliantly. And it took every little bit of self control in him not to lift his hand up to her cheek and close the distance, feel the blood crawling under her perfect skin. Would it be as warm as he imagined? Would she be as soft as she looked?</p><p>Because he <em>had </em>imagined. He <em>had </em>looked.</p><p>"You should at least keep the one with your decree on it," she piped up, much to his surprise. "Weasleys' Wizard Wheezes: outlawed, even before opening.”</p><p>And she smiled. Just a little bit, but it was enough to spark his own. She was so bright all the time, so <em>much</em>, no matter how she tried to hide it. She filled up the space before him completely, for all he towered over her. Magic crackled around her hair and poured out of her fingertips, making him feel sort of—</p><p>Sort of invincible. When he was near her, it felt like anything could be possible.</p><p>And what a dangerous thought.</p><p>“Maybe I will,” he nodded, already mentally placing it on the wall of the empty shop. Maybe he’d put it over the register. Or maybe he’d hang it in the flat upstairs, over the secondhand sofa he and George had already picked out.</p><p>Unbidden, he was struck with the image of snogging Granger within an inch of her life, on that sofa.</p><p>“And the third part?”</p><p>“Hm?” Distractedly, he watched as a few bubbles floated between them, sliding across her arm. She would wind that arm up around his shoulders, and then—</p><p>“The third part of your grand plan.”</p><p>His mind blanked for a second as she bobbed in the water, pushing off the wall. The foam parted dangerously, bare skin peering out. <em>New plan: Kiss Granger.</em></p><p>But that wasn’t a new plan; that was an <em>old </em>plan. A ridiculous, oft-discarded plan. There had been dozens of proto-plans just like that one, all dismissed for being too mad, too dangerous, too unlikely, too difficult, too frightening. <em>That</em> wasn’t the plan.</p><p>Nor, he realized in a flash, was it the plan she’d asked after. She wanted to know about the bit where he left. She wanted to understand—</p><p>But suddenly, he couldn't bear to think about it. He'd been so excited to tell her, explain himself, and then he just… wasn't.</p><p>Once again, he found himself ducking down under the surface of the water, seeking a moment of escape—to clear his head. He didn’t back away—just sank. Sat, cross-legged on the ground for a few long, silent seconds while the water buffeted him. He could feel the movement of her legs, kicking out off the ledge, but this time he was careful to keep his eyes pinched tightly closed until he resurfaced, blinking away the soap that slid down his face.</p><p>And Granger was right there, closing the space. Treading water, bobbing up and down, though it was surely shallow enough to stand. But, he supposed, she had to keep herself below the foam, where he couldn’t see anything he shouldn’t. He watched her move for a moment.</p><p>Her face and shoulders shone with steam. Her eyebrows were doing a thing—a little quirk-thing that could possibly, if he were quite brave, be construed as an expression of fondness, or familiarity, at least. But which he would safely interpret as amusement.</p><p>He’d been sitting directly in front of her, he realized. Below the water. Probably eye-level with her—</p><p>She spoke up. “Fred, you’ve got—”</p><p>One of Granger’s arms rose out of the water, and he really, honestly tried not to watch the soap suds slide. Watching her bite her lip was worse. He felt like he might explode, because wanting Hermione Granger felt like wanting the sun. Maddening. Overwhelming. He was rubbish at this.</p><p>She gestured toward his face.</p><p>“What?” He tried for a smile, shaking his head and spattering the top of her chest with bubbles.</p><p>
  <em>Don’t look, don’t look, don’t look.</em>
</p><p>With a giggle—a <em>giggle,</em> faint but floating over the steam like a bird in the rafters—she lifted her hand higher. “Get down here,” she commanded, flexing her fingers. His throat was dry, and he tried to swallow. And then he bent lower, so her hand hovered right in front of his face. Maybe if this wasn’t a hot bath and he wasn’t already bloody smoldering, he’d be able to feel the heat off of her skin. But all he could feel was his own pulse, and a burning in his belly.</p><p>Doggedly, Granger continued. “You’ve got—on your face—”</p><p>And then, slowly, her fingers brushed his cheek.</p><p>At first, it felt distant, like it might be happening to someone else: someone who could plausibly be standing in the Prefect’s Bath with Hermione Granger. But then her smile faded to a look of gentle contentment. And, like magic, it was happening to him. He felt it.</p><p>The uncertainty of the motion. The softness of her skin. The way she wiped away a stray sud with one little finger, the rest of her hand hovering but not quite touching. When the pad of her thumb caught his jaw, he felt his muscles jump, clamping down on the urge to react.</p><p>“Sorry,” she whispered.</p><p><em>Why? Why would she ever feel</em>—</p><p>“Don’t be,” he replied, and his own hand flew up to keep her from moving, from withdrawing that touch. Even if he knew it was wrong—not supposed to be happening, not between them, probably not ever—he couldn’t help but press her palm flat to his cheek. His fingers read the scarring on the back of her hand, and the ache softened in his stomach, making it flip with the oddest, most protective feeling he’d ever had in his life.</p><p>Granger, he knew without a doubt, should never be hurt like that.</p><p>He could stop it, he decided. <em>Would </em>stop it. Would keep doing whatever it took to prevent it. He knew how to make the world brighter, happier. And he’d do it. He’d’ve done it anyway, but knowing what it felt like to be so close to someone <em>so bright...</em></p><p>She should look like she did now, all the time—a bit dazed, but thoughtful, lips parted in pleased surprise. Leaning up and forward. Toward him. Cognitively, he knew there were other facets of Granger: bits he liked just as well. The brainy, brilliant parts. And the incomprehensible, infuriating parts. And the loud, bossy parts. And the vengeful, raging parts. All of them were fantastic, but mostly, he just wanted to see her looking <em>happy.</em></p><p>They’d had so <em>little </em>to be happy about lately, hadn’t they?</p><p>They could have this one thing, couldn’t they?</p><p>The magnet in his belly that he’d long ignored pulled him one shaky step forward, one final step, until he loomed over her so totally that it couldn’t be misinterpreted. He couldn’t imagine what he hoped to accomplish by it. But he could feel the magic rolling off of her in waves, the same sweet-sharp sensation as always—except <em>more.</em></p><p>Her magic prickled against his cheek, it clamped around his throat, <em>tugged. </em>On something deep in his chest. Down in his belly.</p><p>“Sod it,” he said, not to her. To the room and to the universe at large.</p><p>In a split-second decision—and for the life of him, he couldn’t tell if it was the right one—Fred dipped his head again, low enough to leave only a breath between them.</p><p>And he paused, in the space of that breath, to wait.</p><p>His heartbeat was a riot in his chest, his thoughts in a distracted tailspin. What was he doing? <em>What was he doing? </em>And she didn’t move. Didn’t back away. So he just—</p><p>Closed the distance.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>The bottom dropped out of her world, and her stomach fell with it.</p><p>In another universe, one where she didn’t know what it felt like to hold a wand or cast a perfectly-spoken spell, she might’ve called <em>this</em>—the press of his lips against hers, the dragging feeling he summoned from under her breastbone, the swirling of pure and unmitigated <em>want </em>in her belly—</p><p>She might have called it magic.</p><p>She might still.</p><p>Because the feeling was unbelievable. A dizzy, sweeping sensation impossible to reconcile with the firm hold of his hands, holding her upright. One of his wide palms pressed damply against her cheek, an escaped curl flattened between, sticking to their skin. And his other held her hand, their interlocked fingers falling below the surface of the water, to be carried on the invisible current. Every point of connection creating a circuit that tingled through her whole body.</p><p>She was <em>kissing Fred.</em></p><p>Kissing other boys hadn’t felt like this.</p><p>Granted, she didn’t have many points of comparison—just Viktor, and a nice Muggle boy she’d met in France. They’d been lovely. But they were nothing like this. Not even on this <em>scale. </em>This felt like something else entirely—something rare. Possibly exceptional. Certainly too good to be let go of.</p><p>She wanted to crawl out of herself and into him. All at once, every awkward look, every sudden shift in her breathing when he brushed too close to her, every time her tummy tightened at the way he said “Granger”—all of it had a name. And she wanted to say it to him, to tell him everything she’d ever thought of doing and have him tell her everything, in return.</p><p>It felt like opening a new book with fresh pages, finding that there was so <em>much </em>to discover.</p><p>It felt like being kissed until her mind melted into gorgeous, unbelievable emptiness.</p><p>It was a matter of instinct to stretch up out of the water—standing on her toes, disentangling her fingers from Fred’s, letting one hand slide up his arm while the other curved back along his jaw, sinking into his hair. She knew she was trailing soap suds wherever she went, that water was pouring in a river between her breasts, which were very much exposed, but it hardly mattered. Still gripping the hair at the nape of his neck, she felt a shudder travel along his shoulders, followed by a drag of air like a sharp breath and his fingers making delicate, tentative contact with her waist. Holding her like glass, and then—</p><p>He tugged her closer with a noise that sounded not entirely unlike a groan. It punctured the hot, heavy air swirling around them, and her core clenched in reply.</p><p>Pressed flat to his chest, Hermione’s heart skipped at the warm solidity of him—the feeling of his unfamiliar skin mingled with his too-familiar scent, all of it slicked with soap and wanting. She shifted, craving more of it. The movement felt like a jolt of electricity, even with the absence of proper friction, and her whole body reacted—nipples tightening, toes curling, and fingers tugging harder for purchase. She shivered, whimpered desperately into his open mouth. It might have been embarrassing, only she was too far past that.</p><p>As if stung, he leapt back, brown eyes flying open and alight with concern. “<em>Shit, </em>sorry—” He sounded nothing like himself. His voice was so husky; breathy, almost, like he’d had the wind knocked out of him. “I’m—that was completely—that was too much—”</p><p>His babbling—and it was disconcerting, actually, how <em>alarmed </em>he looked—continued even while she reeled from the loss of contact, the way their skin had separated with a damp <em>pop. </em>Every prior point of contact prickled from cold and loss, and Hermione had to struggle not to shudder. And not to grab him with both hands.</p><p>“No,” she hurried to interrupt, shaking her head so fast that her hair came loose from its Sticking Charm, tumbling all around her neck and shoulders. His eyes tracked the curls, dark and intent, sending another coil of heat twisting inside her. “You didn’t—that was—I mean, <em>Merlin.</em>”</p><p>“Good?” The word was shaped by a smirk. But underneath the cocky arch of his brow was hesitation, locking his limbs. Uncertainty.</p><p>“Good,” she affirmed. There was a pause while his eyes traced over her again. And suddenly she remembered herself—her hands dropped from where they hovered to her chest, folding over her bare breasts as she began to blush. “Sort of… redefining the word, actually.”</p><p>He looked surprised, though she didn’t know why.</p><p>“Good,” he echoed warmly, his smirk splitting open into a smile much bigger and warmer, a smile that sent a pang down deep into her belly, and even deeper into her chest. He looked—relieved? The realization tugged on her heartstrings. For all their relative disparity in experience, he looked just as out of his depth as she felt.</p><p>Hermione swallowed. “And what about…?” She paused, trying to give the impression of self-possession, despite the heat in her cheeks and the hormones raging through her system, stealing all her words away. Her hands felt clammy, tucked under her own damp arms. “I mean, I don’t have much experience—not terribly many opportunities to practice—that is, kissing.”</p><p>“Granger,” he laughed, though he didn’t seem to be laughing <em>at </em>her. “You’re perfect.” He reached for her arms and she felt her stomach dropping again, felt it the second his hands made contact, cradling her elbows. His thumbs stroked in a back-and-forth motion that made her blush even more. She wanted to feel it repeated—elsewhere. Everywhere.</p><p>Why had he stopped kissing her?</p><p>“I mean, I’ve wanted to—” and he laughed again, raspy and raw, “—ever since…”</p><p>Fred shook his head, as if trying to clear it. His hair fell into his face.</p><p>“I don’t know what to say,” he said brightly. “You’ve made me an idiot.”</p><p>“Oh,” she breathed. And, summoning her bravery, she reached up to push his hair back, out of his eyes. It was so soft, sliding between her fingers like silk. She taunted, eyes sparkling: “I can hardly take credit for <em>that</em>.” It was like the feeling when she sipped champagne and it bubbled inside her, filling her with a heady sense of heat and daring. She fancied it—the teasing. The flirting? Whatever it was, she liked the back-and-forth: the sense of being in it together. The mutuality.</p><p>Better than plotting, by far.</p><p>“Oh, that’s nice. Very nice,” Fred complained, though he was still smiling. “I kiss you and you insult my intelligence.”</p><p>“Kiss me again,” she said, her voice dragging at the words, struggling to find enough air. “I’ll start on about how you need a haircut.”</p><p>Something flared in his eyes. Something dark and hungry, and he blinked once. Firmly. “Right.”</p><p>And she was ready, this time, when he kissed her. Ready for her whole world to twist and sputter off its axis. Again.</p><p>She didn’t—actually, <em>couldn’t</em>—keep track of how long they stayed like that, her arms around his neck and his hands on her arms, holding her upright. It was all one long, slow kiss leading into another after that, with only brief moments of not-kissing that felt more like codas in an unending sequence than real breaks in the rhythm. A <em>dizzying </em>one, played out across lips and tongues and teeth, heartbeats like drums. But she felt when it changed—a shift in his jaw opened her mouth wider, pulled her closer, until she knew she’d start climbing up his body if he didn’t <em>do something.</em></p><p>His hands slid gently from her arms to her hips, holding her in place.</p><p>“Okay?”</p><p>“Yes,” she breathed against his parted lips. “Don’t stop.” <em>That was demanding, </em>she realized. Considered. “Please.”</p><p>He made another little noise—he made a lot of those, really: slight gasps for air that swept through her, little “mm” noises that rumbled over her tongue—and it was like the word “please” actually <em>was </em>a magic word after all. Just like she’d been told as a child. She tried it again, willing him to move his hands to somewhere else, somewhere more stimulating. “<em>Please.</em>” And it certainly seemed like magic: the word unlocked another sound—a growl, almost, and a desperate gripping about the hips that felt like the precursor to something.</p><p>If she could just find the right combination of actions and words—</p><p>“Granger.”</p><p>She pulled his bottom lip between her teeth, and <em>gods, </em>he felt good to bite into. Plush. And the power that came with it—the automatic jump of his hips, his fingers flexing into her again—felt surreal. Like getting the right answer in class, times a <em>thousand.</em> Softly, she bit down again—even harder than before, but still gentle. More of a tug. Hermione could feel his reaction below the water—twitching hips, something soft-but-hard and unfamiliar brushing against her belly. <em>There’s an anatomical name for that, </em>she scolded herself<em>. </em>But she could forgive herself a bit of mental fog: he <em>was</em> kissing her to distraction. She released his lip—soothed it with her tongue.</p><p>His arms pulled her close again, flush to his chest, before loosening. Almost like he had to stop himself.</p><p>“Fuck,” he laughed. “I can’t believe I’m—Granger, <em>wait</em>.”</p><p>Her body felt hot; her <em>face </em>felt hot, burning up as he pulled away. She couldn’t seem to stop blushing, and wondered if it was some sort of permanent reaction to Fred Weasley’s proximity.</p><p>She pressed her face into his clavicle, palms flat against his chest, and squeezed her eyes shut so he couldn’t see her and she wouldn’t have to see anything at all. “Did I do something wrong?” And the pitch of her voice was so embarrassing—so throaty and unlike herself—that she flushed even harder.</p><p>“<em>Gods, </em>no. Here—look,” he said, tipping her chin with his thumb. “Look at me, please. Blimey, you’re pretty. This is hard enough as it is, so don’t—no, don’t give me those eyes, witch.”</p><p>She didn’t know precisely what he meant, but she blinked up into his familiar face, basking in his warm, affectionate smile. Water droplets hung from his hair and he looked, somehow, different than he usually did. Surprisingly serious. And being this close to his face still felt strange—almost hyperreal.</p><p>“You have to understand, fancying you always felt a bit… impossible,” he was saying, eyes all sincere and soft as he looked down at her upturned face. His thumb stroked her cheek in that same back-and-forth rhythm. “So, I've done a poor job showing it—which is why I’m trying to do the right thing here, yeah?”</p><p>“What do you mean?”</p><p>“I don’t want to push you,” he said meaningfully, his eyes dropping down to their connected bodies and back up again.</p><p>She blinked. “You’re not.”</p><p>“Right,” he huffed, “I’ve got past the shock with the snogging bit. That’s brilliant. I could do it all day. But I mean—into something you’re not ready for.”</p><p>Suddenly the heat suffusing her skin no longer felt dreamy or delicious or any other positive words she could think of. It felt <em>suffocating</em>, made painful by the realization that he had no intention of <em>doing</em> anything about it. His handling of her thus far had been relatively cautious, and it contrasted sharply with the need she felt—that she <em>knew </em>he felt. She could <em>literally</em> feel that he felt it.</p><p>“Fred Weasley, don’t be patronizing.” Hermione pushed off of him with both palms before dropping her fists to her hips, splashing through the foam. At that moment, she didn’t care about her toplessness or the liquid heat he'd somehow gathered at the apex of her thighs with just a few kisses. She felt irritated, and righteous, and brave. “I may be relatively inexperienced, but that doesn’t mean I’m incapable of deciding for myself what I am and am not ready for. I mean, do I genuinely seem like the sort of person who would just… completely strip down and get into a bath with somebody? Somebody I wasn’t <em>quite sure </em>how I felt about <em>before </em>I got in?”</p><p>Fred appeared to be pressing his lips together, barely even trying to prevent a smile. So he found her anger amusing, did he?</p><p><em>Of course he does</em>, she reminded herself. <em>He's </em>Fred.</p><p>“I think I've made myself quite obvious from the start. I want this. Besides, you’re leaving, and I’m staying, and I want—” but her throat closed the words off. <em>Want it to be you. Would’ve wanted it to be you anyway. Wanted it to be you when I was too young to even understand what it was I was wanting. </em>“If that’s not what you want,” she tried again, tongue still sticking around <em>want,</em> “that’s perfectly fine. But don’t you dare make this decision for me. Don’t act noble.”</p><p>He stepped forward, once again closing the gap. She wondered if it would always be this way—one of them stepping back, the other moving forward. A give and take. Opposites in so many ways, moving in different directions, but still trying to forge a path to each other. Perhaps it felt too grand, to analyze one kiss in a bath like this.</p><p>Or perhaps not.</p><p>Because at some point over the course of the last however-long, she had abandoned the firm belief that she'd move on from this teenage crush; at some point, probably while he’d been kissing her to complete oblivion, she had transitioned to <em>always. </em>But she couldn’t consider the change too long. His hand rose and slid deliberately along her waist, fingers spanning her ribs like he owned them. The pad of his thumb brushed the bottom of her breast—such a tiny touch, so far from all she wanted, but she felt it down to her toes.</p><p>She saw the intention change, sharpen his expression. The hunger seemed more keen now, more direct and unapologetic.</p><p>It felt dangerous, to be the recipient of that look. And wonderful.</p><p>"I’ve never been noble a day in my life,” he chided. “Still—you'll tell me if you want to stop?"</p><p>Hermione nodded.</p><p>But this time, when he leaned down to kiss her, she knew there would be no stopping. Not for all the world.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>How they could fall into something so new like it was utterly natural was completely beyond Fred’s power of comprehension. But they did.</p><p>He was experimental by nature, though, and she gave him <em>more </em>than enough to work with. He could try everything, anything—every angle, every sort of pressure, every combination of kissing and sucking and biting, every inch of her mouth and throat—he could test new touches as they occurred to him, and she’d give glorious, direct feedback. Wriggling under his hands, her soft skin sent shockwaves through him; her hips perpetually twisted and rocked, an unconscious attempt to get more and better contact. The first time she ground against his cock, he thought it might be an accident. The twentieth time, he started to lose his head a little.</p><p>“Hop up,” he said.</p><p>“Hm?” When she pulled back, her eyes were glassy and bright all at once, her mouth pink and kiss-bruised. He felt himself twitch against her belly. No doubt he looked largely the same.</p><p>His hands slid around and down her back, rubbing little circles into the base of her spine. “Up.”</p><p>Bracing her arms around his neck, she did as he asked, and he was suddenly quite grateful for all his years of Quidditch. He didn’t lose his footing, instead remaining balanced and solid while she settled her legs around his hips—though he did huff as she unknowingly dragged up along him, the friction of her warm body barely dulled by his scandalous swimming costume. His fingers squeezed into the undersides of her thighs; the skin was so soft, so pliant, that he nearly groaned aloud.</p><p>Why hadn’t he anticipated this being so <em>overwhelming?</em></p><p>Suddenly eye-level, Granger blushed again. She wiggled in his grasp, and he felt the brush of damp curls against his stomach. This was the closest he’d ever been to a fully naked girl before, so he was <em>certain </em>this was the closest <em>she’d </em>ever been to a (mostly) naked bloke. The most exposed she’d ever been. No wonder she was red in the face. Still, he tried to comfort her.</p><p>“I cannot <em>believe </em>you’re still blushing,” he teased. “It’s just me. Just Fred. Your friend. A familiar old friend. A friend who you fancy fucking, but—” and then his mouth dropped to her neck, peppering her with more butterfly kisses, because he could and he wanted to. He nibbled a tendon. Planted a kiss behind her ear. Summoned out a little groan, a flex of her hips that sent him over the moon. Her fingers carded through his hair, and he hummed. “Hm. Maybe less alliterating. Do you want me to talk you through it, or do you want me to shut up and start trying things?”</p><p>He shimmied her up a little bit, so he could begin planting kisses on the tops of her breasts. He was right: they <em>did </em>taste like vanilla and soap. A surprisingly pleasant combination, that was, and one he’d probably think fondly of for the rest of his life. Unless he cocked this up, of course.</p><p>“Um,” she breathed, and he felt it against the top of his head. “Do you—<em>oh, </em>do you think you can multitask?” His teeth drifted over that same spot again. “<em>Oh.</em>”</p><p>He clucked in faux-dismay, burying his grin in her soft curves. “You sound as if you genuinely doubt me.”</p><p>She yanked his hair a bit harder, and he smiled even wider.<em> Bossy little witch.</em></p><p>“Please,” she said.</p><p>And the little whine in that word—<em>please</em>—was all it took. Walking them back to the edge of the pool, he turned to sit on the sunken ledge, his chest dropping back down into the water. Gently, he rearranged Granger’s legs so she had one knee on either side of him, core hovering above his annoyingly persistent erection, which seemed to follow her like a fucking dowsing rod. He was grateful when she didn't sink down right away, instead hovering over him.</p><p>“There now. So you don’t forget who’s in charge,” he informed her.</p><p>When she looked at him dubiously, he rolled his eyes. But his hands slid up and down her outer thighs, hopefully in a way that felt reassuring. “<em>You</em> are. You control the pace, yeah?”</p><p>To his relief, she nodded.</p><p>“And this way,” he added wickedly, “I get the loveliest view in the castle.” Which was true, even if it made Granger blush to hear it.</p><p>She was truly a sight to behold.</p><p>Her smooth stomach shot up out of the foam, filling his vision, like looking up at a cliff from down on the shoreline. Shining droplets of water hung in the valley between her breasts, ready to be licked and kissed away, and the way she was looking down at him—<em>Merlin, </em>with her bottom lip pinched between her teeth, a furrow between her brows—because this was <em>Granger </em>and she was always concentrating, even on this. On him. Her hair was frizzed out in a honey-brown halo around her head. He kissed the space above her belly button.</p><p>He thought, <em>I can’t believe this is actually happening. </em>Except he must have said it, because Granger’s lips curved and her eyes sparkled. And she bent over and met his mouth like a kiss was some sort of answer, instead of the source of all his questions. Her lips tasted like tea.</p><p>But he <em>could </em>multitask, and he intended to.</p><p>Slowly, Fred slid his hands up from under the water, dragging the ever-dissipating suds with them, smoothing them over her stomach, around the cage of her ribs, up and along the sides of her breasts, circling closer until he could brush his thumbs over the very tips, at which point their mouths parted with a pop, because her jaw had dropped and she'd made a little <em>huh </em>sound.</p><p>“You’re doing gorgeously, by the way,” he informed her, kissing the corner of her mouth. “The faces you make...”</p><p>Once, twice—back and forth, he rubbed until her nipples were stiff points. Feeling her body reacting to him in real time was dizzying. He watched her throat move while she swallowed, her lips pursing and relaxing, and flicked his fingers again. Her whole body shuddered with sensitivity, the stimulation making her legs clamp on either side of his thighs.</p><p>She still hadn’t settled any lower, which meant he was still achingly hard and wishing for some blessed contact<em>. </em>But it hardly mattered. She’d move when she was ready.</p><p>He slid one hand back down her side, lips moving to replace it. When they closed around her taut nipple, she moaned. Actually, <em>really </em>moaned. And then her fingers shot into his hair so fast that she almost tore it at the roots.</p><p>Behind closed lids, his eyes practically rolled back into his head, and he mumbled something senseless into her breast, his other hand resting on her hip. One thumb stretched down into the crease of her thigh, getting the both of them used to the sensation of him being so close to that part of her. Back and forth, he moved his thumb in time with the suction of his lips, the pull of his other fingers. Before long, her hips were faintly rolling in time with his efforts, little winded sounds coming out of her parted lips. He squeezed her hip.</p><p>“How ‘m I doing?” he mumbled, letting his chin rest against her abdomen. “Pretty good at multitasking?”</p><p>“You’re a prat,” she shot back, but the words were shaky. And her hands in his hair were soft. "But… yes."</p><p>“Credit where it’s due—this is what a lifetime of Quidditch’ll get you. Dexterity.”</p><p>“Yes, and how many times have you had to regrow this particular hand?” she asked, fingers drifting out of his hair and up his arm, until her smaller hand cupped the one cradling her breast.</p><p>“This one?” He gave her nipple another gentle tweak, and watched in fascination as her hand wrapped around his wrist in tandem with her gasp of pleasure, like he was steadying her even as he helped her unravel.</p><p>Her hands were so small compared to his, but all it would take was the slightest pull from those clever fingers and he’d give way. Stop cold. Never talk about it again and pretend he’d never touched her.</p><p><em>Wrapped around those delicate little fingers, </em>he observed drily.</p><p>"Mhm," she nodded, lips pressed tightly together.</p><p>“Never re-grown that one,” he said. “That’s pure, original model Fred Weasley. This hand, however—” he wiggled his fingers around her hip, “—has a few bones—” and then slid his knuckles down the crease of her leg, “—that are a generous gift—” until they brushed her sex, “—from Madame Pomfrey.”</p><p>“Really.” The word contained no curiosity. Her eyes simply fluttered shut. Her hips shifted forward, though he wasn’t sure she was aware of the motion.</p><p>“Mhm,” he hummed into her skin. “How’re you doing, love? Still okay?”</p><p>She nodded, eyes still closed. He could <em>feel </em>the blood rushing through her, even where his face rested, the faint echo of her heartbeat reverberating into his jaw, into his bones.</p><p>“Ready to try more?”</p><p>Granger’s eyes flashed open, expression sharp. “Why are you being so… nice?”</p><p>“You <em>just </em>called me a prat,” he laughed.</p><p>“You’re both. You’re being both. You’re being—”</p><p>“Considerate, because I care about you?” He supplied the answer automatically, uncaring of how exposed it left him. He was already exposed in essentially every other way—or would be, when he finally worked out how to get off the strip of fabric currently strangling his erection. With a half-smile, he trailed kisses down over the slope of her stomach, until he was hunched over her belly button.</p><p>He could see his own pale hand, wavering beneath the water. Touching, but not moving, poised right at the apex of her thighs, which blurred into tantalizing indistinctness. <em>Gods, </em>he wanted to touch her properly. Wanted to make her feel good and gorgeous and perfect and wanted.</p><p>“It’s just not what I… would usually expect,” she said, voice softer now. “From you.”</p><p>“To be nice, or to care about you?”</p><p>Really, all he had to do was nudge her clit and this conversation would undoubtedly be over. But he waited patiently while her jaw tensed and released. His other hand had eased off her breast, cupping it gently in his palm. She was so <em>soft.</em></p><p>After a moment, she sighed. “Now <em>I’m </em>being a prat.”</p><p>“A bit,” he nodded agreeably. “But I fancy it. That’s sort of my problem.” He let his knuckle brush against her, a subtle reminder of why they were there. “Now, if you don’t mind, I’d like to get back to multitasking, yeah?”</p><p>Granger shivered, and another shard of desire lanced through his body. “All right.”</p><p>“Do you know what you like? Might save time.”</p><p>"I don’t—just—" He heard her throat click. "Just touch me." The words sounded like they’d been dragged out, and when he looked back up at her face—tempted though he was to watch his fingers as they reached for her, to stare at the contrast between his long, pale fingers and her tan skin—she looked tense. Releasing her breast completely, he reached back and grabbed one small hand from where it hung over his shoulder, pulling it to his mouth so he could press a kiss into her palm.</p><p>“Okay,” he whispered into her heart line.</p><p>He was familiar with this process, obviously, but for some reason—a reason he didn’t need or care to examine—this felt more important than it had in the past. <em>Was </em>more important. Certainly less expected, less prepared-for. He wanted to get it right. So when he curled his fingers against her, brushing through a slickness that was wetter than water, softer somehow, he kept his touch gentle. He watched her face while her jaw worked, eyes pinched shut; while she settled into the sensation of being touched where she hadn’t been before. And he trailed his careful way upwards, circling around, not-quite-touching her clit in a way that maybe wasn’t precisely expert, but took about as much concentration as he was capable of.</p><p>Her face was just doing so <em>much. </em>He made a habit of reading people—their tics, their likes and dislikes, their honest responses—and she gave all of that up so willingly. An open book.</p><p>“You’ve done this before,” she guessed suddenly, though she wasn’t looking at him and he had no idea what provoked it.</p><p>“Mm,” he said, non-committal. “What makes you say that?” She jumped when he approached from a certain angle—apparently, a sensitive angle—and he pressed another kiss against her flexing fingers. “Relax.”</p><p>She nodded. “You seem to have a—a remarkable understanding of female anatomy.” And he had to grin at how swotty she sounded, even breathless as she was, while his fingers slipped over her sensitive nerve endings and his other hand gripped her hip. He tried not to think about how much he wanted to just—sink into her, fingers and all, and never leave. How much he wanted her to stop <em>thinking </em>and just let him—</p><p>But she was still speaking. “I was given to understand that most men have no idea what they’re doing. You obviously do.”</p><p>“I’m flattered, Granger,” he said, grinning. And he was. When his fingers slid back between her lips, she was even wetter and silkier than before. Her body was reacting, for all that her brain seemed to be working overtime; that much he could tell. “But it’s mostly beginner’s luck. Rumors of my exploits have been <em>greatly </em>exaggerated.” He punctuated the sentence by letting his finger glide barely—just the tiniest bit—into her opening. She was hotter than the bath water, and he felt himself twitch again.</p><p>She gasped. “<em>Oh.</em>” And then said, through gritted teeth, “You don’t have to lie for my benefit.”</p><p>Grin fading, he blinked up at her. “I’m not—why would I lie?”</p><p>“To make me feel special?” She sounded uncertain, and his fingers stilled in and on her. Impatiently, her eyes fluttered open, her hips stalling in the tiny circles they’d been making, so tiny that he knew they were involuntary.</p><p>She wasn’t getting it. How was she not <em>getting </em>it. He’d said, hadn’t he?</p><p>“Hermione,” he said, as firmly as he could.</p><p>The syllables of her name stuck in his mouth, because no matter how much he might practice them in his own head, it was nothing like saying them aloud.</p><p>“You daft, brilliant witch.” He could almost laugh, really.</p><p>Fred pulled his finger back, gathering slickness, his thumb hovering in wait, ready to synchronize with what was coming. And then, when she <em>finally </em>looked down at him, expression impatient and inquisitive and pleading all at once—</p><p>He said, “You <em>are</em>.”</p><p>And slid into her. Pressed down with his thumb.</p><p>Her head fell back. And her cry rang out like a bell.</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>“Oh, <em>fuck.</em>”</p><p>Hermione was pretty sure she shouted the curse, but she couldn’t be <em>totally </em>sure, because every bit of her brain was focused on the extremely strange and conflicting sensations occurring below the waterline, where Fred Weasley’s long, brilliant finger was currently pressed up inside her. The fact that he had accompanied the invasion with sudden, knee-melting contact with her clit, while maintaining an absolutely brain-emptying eye contact with her and saying perhaps the most genuine, most <em>lovely </em>thing she’d ever heard him say—well, those things didn’t help the matter one bit.</p><p>Her eyes had rolled back into her head, and she’d cursed.</p><p>And when her inner muscles finally relaxed and she regained the tiniest bit of sense, she saw that Fred was looking up at her, rather a smug look on his face. And she realized that both hands had made their way back into his hair, like they were acting out of some unconscious fixation on making him look as rumpled and shagged out as possible.</p><p>She untangled one hand and smacked his shoulder. “Fred!”</p><p>“Yes?” His finger curled forward in tandem with the word, and once again, her knees felt more than a bit like jelly, her balance wavering. His smirk widened.</p><p>She groaned, though it was less from irritation than from surprise at the intensity of the stimulation. Like he’d found some kind of magic button and was quite determined to continually push it. Clinically, she knew that was <em>essentially </em>what was happening, but it didn’t make it feel any less strange. Any less devastating. “You’re unbearable,” she muttered.</p><p>He laughed, and he didn’t stop fucking her with his fingers. In and out, always aiming for that perfect angle. And his fingers struck glancing blows against her sensitive clit. The water should have washed <em>some </em>of the arousal away, but his touch only seemed to glide more and more easily. And Fred wouldn’t—or couldn’t, maybe—stop grinning. He looked like he was about as happy as he’d ever been, which was saying something, considering how very <em>painfully </em>happy he always seemed.</p><p>“I didn’t know you could swear,” he replied conversationally. The hand not currently emptying her skull squeezed her hip. “Always thought you were sort of—” and another thrust made her thighs wobble, “—<em>above </em>that kind of thing.”</p><p>“I like to save them up,” she answered breathlessly, even as her hips followed his rhythm. “You know—wait for when they’ll have the <em>m</em>—the most impact. Use the element of s-surprise.” And then, because she was starting feel a sort of tightness, like a snake coiling up before a strike, only it was <em>inside </em>her and it was starting to blur her vision at the edges, she forced her inner muscles to <em>relax, </em>to stop reacting to every beckon of his stupid, clever fingers. She forced her hips to stop rocking, and she leaned down to kiss him. To shut his mouth. To shut <em>her </em>mouth.</p><p>To feel something less confusing.</p><p>She knew how to get herself off, obviously. She was a studious individual, and she had a well-developed understanding of anatomy and physiology on both the theoretical and personal level, relative to the rest of the wizarding world. But his fingers were bigger, reached further, and could hit specific angles that she’d never been able to achieve on her own. Which meant that the corkscrew twisting she felt in her core was strange, unfamiliar in a way she hadn’t anticipated. It was <em>too intense, </em>somehow.</p><p>And so, she kissed him. Because she wanted to bring him with her, right up to the edge. Or at least start pulling him in an edge-wise direction.</p><p>His fingers slowed their movements as she put all her concentration into touching <em>him.</em> Her own hands trailed down over his cheeks, his neck, his shoulders. Bolder, she let them wander further—over his chest, the plane of his stomach, seeking out contact that would drive him as distracted as she’d gone. She felt the muscles in his abdomen tighten, rippling in her wake. Felt the breath stop in his chest. Felt him cling to her with both hands. It felt good. His hand rocked to a stop.</p><p>It felt <em>powerful.</em></p><p>The heady sensation was enough to carry her lower—into territory she was so unfamiliar with that she almost didn’t notice—</p><p>He grunted—though it turned into something else after barely a second, huffing out across her lips. A laugh?</p><p>She made a questioning sound, and might’ve tilted her head if she hadn’t been preoccupied with kissing his lips raw.</p><p>Her hand was gliding over an utterly unexpected texture. Certainly not skin, though she could only tell now that she was touching him with her sensitive fingertips. It was familiar, really, in a practical, almost academic way—which it should absolutely <em>not </em>have been. Instead of the velvety skin she’d been led to expect, it was more like—</p><p>She reeled back in horror. “What the <em>bloody hell </em>is that?”</p><p>Fred laughed. Again, and harder than before, his mouth falling open and away from her. He laughed so hard that his head fell back, exposing the long line of his throat, the subtle bump of his Adam’s apple. Hermione wanted to reach out and plant a kiss there, or maybe bite him, but didn’t, instead freezing in his lap with her hand wrapped around what was <em>supposed </em>to be his cock.</p><p>“Your face—” he wheezed. “<em>Merlin, </em>if you could see—”</p><p>Clearing her throat, she went to pull her hand away, though even that loose friction seemed too stimulating, based purely on his half-laughed groan. His free hand fell over hers, squeezing firmly around her fingers. “Sorry, wait,” he panted, chuckling. “Blimey. It wasn’t supposed to go like this, you understand. You were supposed to laugh me right out of the bath. Hence, the snakeskin thong.”</p><p>Hermione frowned, once again trying to remove her hand. This time, he let her—wincing, it seemed, at the loss.</p><p>“Not a <em>real </em>snakeskin thong, obviously. Stopped buying those <em>years </em>ago,” he joked. “Too bloody expensive, not to mention <em>totally </em>unethical. I mean, snakes can <em>talk.</em>”</p><p>She found that she couldn’t come up with anything to say to that; there were too many conflicting impulses running through her. Predominantly, the desire to <em>get the damn thing off</em> so she could touch him properly. But there was also more than a bit of confusion—he’d worn a sexy snakeskin swimming costume? To prank her?</p><p>More importantly: he cared about the ethical implications of the magical community’s recognition of the sentience of snakes?</p><p>She couldn’t visualize it, really. Fred Weasley, shopping for a snakeskin thong. He must have Transfigured it. A horrible thought occurred to her: maybe he’d gotten George to help, or Lee.</p><p>Her mouth dropped open, at a loss. Nothing came out, except a huff of disbelief. Bemusement. And then—bubbling up from deep inside—</p><p>Laughter.</p><p>Hermione laughed so hard that her quivery legs gave out, dropping her directly into his lap. She laughed so hard that her body curled in on itself, bowing her forward until her head fell to his shoulder. She laughed like she hadn’t done <em>all year, </em>and possibly longer, and it made her lightheaded—how <em>good </em>it felt to just laugh. She snickered and snorted into his skin until she could manage it better, merely sputtering silly giggles at semi-regular intervals. And then she sat up again, using her arms to balance herself, so she could look him in the face.</p><p>“I suppose that explains—” and she paused to contain a giggle, pressing her lips firmly together, “—why they’re called ‘trouser snakes,’ then.”</p><p>Fred smiled so wide she thought it probably hurt. “That’s a <em>terrible </em>joke. Truly.”</p><p>“You’ve got no one to blame but yourself.”</p><p>His shoulders shook with laughter. Hermione couldn’t compose herself; she felt her own body writhing with the contained amusement, like his was feeding into hers. Making her giddy and light. Inside, she felt so full of something—of <em>joy</em>, she realized—that she might’ve burst. Only she didn’t have to; she could simply lean forward and kiss him, pouring the surplus out through her lips, through her arms around him, through her own unabashed sound of pleasure when he kissed her <em>back.</em></p><p>She could, and she did.</p><p>She inched forward until they were so close that nothing could have possibly gotten between them, until the friction and the feeling of heat between her legs reminded her he was still <em>wearing </em>the stupid thing.</p><p>“Off,” she muttered, sliding her lips to his jaw. “Take it off.”</p><p>When she nibbled at the stubble there, she felt his hips buck up. “I can’t,” he whinged. “You’d have to move—and if you move, I’ll start crying in despair. Which will ruin the mood.”</p><p>“Your… <em>trouser snake’s</em> tragic impression of a python is <em>already </em>ruining the mood. Hold still,” she commanded. “<em>Accio.</em>” She could probably manage without a wand, but one couldn’t be too careful with these sorts of things. As the vinewood flew into her open palm, she added. “This is <em>not </em>one of the reasons I imagined needing my wand tonight.”</p><p>“What did you imagine?” he asked impishly. “Charms practice in our altogethers? Defence Against the Dick Arts?”</p><p>“A stinging hex to your bare arse, actually,” she shot back. “Now, don’t move. I’m going to vanish the dreadful thing.”</p><p>“<em>What? </em>Wait, careful with—”</p><p>But it was too late. Her wand hand had dropped below the surface of the water, the tip digging into the strip of fabric stretched over his hip. With a simple, silent incantation, she felt the snakeskin simply evaporate out of existence, mercifully never to be seen or felt by anyone, ever again.</p><p>“—the goods,” Fred finished, eyes wide like saucers. “Merciful Morgana, you did it.”</p><p>“There,” Hermione pronounced, shimmying her hips slightly. Her mouth went slack at the change in sensation. “<em>Oh.</em>” Unconstrained by the snakeskin, his length bobbed against her in a rather pleasant way, slipping between her parted folds by accident. It was a duller feeling than when he’d used his fingers, but still. She felt the heat that had gone dormant low in her belly stirring back to life.</p><p>Her hips twitched again, and so did he. Against her.</p><p>When her eyes re-focused, he was staring at her. What exactly his expression was, she couldn’t say, but it seemed like a very <em>good</em>, a very <em>interested </em>expression.</p><p>She swallowed. “Isn’t that better?”</p><p>He nodded. His gaze was abstracted. “Non-verbally, too. You are a terrifying witch, Hermione. Did you know?”</p><p>She nodded. “Will you touch me again?” she asked, nibbling her lip. “Like before?”</p><p>“I’d like nothing better,” he replied, using his hands on her hips to raise her higher. She wondered if he mourned the loss of contact like she did. Still, it couldn’t be too bad if he was looking at her <em>like that,</em> his expression open and maybe a little bit amazed. And his face went unchanged while he did it.</p><p>Touched her, that is.</p><p>Like before.</p><p>Except... more.</p><p>It took barely any time to work her up to where she’d been before, his thumb spinning spirals around her sensitive clit, his other hand gliding around between her breasts and her hips, tweaking and plucking in tandem. Or sometimes, he’d go completely out of sync, constructing creative patterns of movement that made her body sing, though she should have expected as much from a person who went his own way as much as Fred did.</p><p>While her hips bucked and twitched in his grasp, her hands raking lines down his chest, his one, long finger turned to two, turned to three, which was one hell of a stretch, but sort of a <em>good </em>stretch. Like she was accomplishing something by taking them all, even though all she’d really accomplished was working up a sweat.</p><p><em>He </em>was the one accomplishing everything, managing to drag her toward the precipice while still maintaining the impression of control, of reverence, of amusement, of <em>joy</em>, of inescapable and all-consuming desire. He somehow made her feel like she was the only woman, the only <em>person</em> in the world, and like she could fall apart into a million, billion glittering pieces and he’d catch them, and he’d <em>enjoy </em>catching them. <em>That </em>was how he looked—with his lips parted in concentration, hair half-dry and tufting out in chaotic waves, brown eyes deep and dark and sparkling with energy. He was just <em>so pretty </em>and his fingers drove and drove and <em>curled </em>and—</p><p>“Oh my god,” Hermione groaned, her head lolling back. Her hair tickled where it fell down her spine. She felt like her head was full of air, full of pressure, and her vision started to narrow. “Fred,” she said, voice so raspy that she couldn’t possibly sound conversational. It sounded more like “please,” or like an obscenity, or like a prayer.</p><p>She felt a pair of lips tugging on one nipple. Felt rather than heard him mumble against her skin. “C’mon, love.” Felt the electric sensation when his contact with her clit grew firmer, more intentional. Almost pleading. Her belly tightened. “I’ve got you, Hermione. Let go.” And then he was biting down, rolling the tight bud between his teeth and her clit between his fingers, and it was <em>enough, </em>it was just right—</p><p>Her muscles contracted. Her vision blurred. She couldn’t say exactly what sound she made, only it was <em>something, </em>something that bounced off the tiles—</p><p>And she thought, strangely, that she was falling backwards. Down into the water with a splash. Surely her legs were giving out. They felt cool, almost detached from her body. All the blood was rushing through her core, contracting the seldom-used muscles around his fingers, and turning her mind into a vast, blank space.</p><p>When she resurfaced, she was laughing.</p><p>She hadn’t fallen; Fred was holding her.</p><p>Hermione giggled into his shoulder, which was shaking again with subdued amusement. But he wasn’t the one making that noise—the laughter echoing all over was undoubtedly <em>hers.</em></p><p>“Good?” he asked, breath ruffling her hair, and she could hear him smiling.</p><p>“Redefining the term,” she sighed. He chuckled. Her chest buzzed. “You have a nice laugh.”</p><p>“Why, thank you,” he replied cheerfully. “So, no more insults for me, then?”</p><p>
  <em>What’s he talking about? Oh, right. Before.</em>
</p><p>She shook her head and <em>thought </em>she could make out him sputtering into her no doubt suffocating hair, so she pulled back, smiling ear-to-ear. “That’s exclusive to snogging. Though you <em>do </em>need a haircut. Next thing, it’ll be last year all over again.”</p><p>Fred rolled his eyes. Merlin, he had such lovely, long eyelashes. “You fancied my hair, admit it.”</p><p>“I fancied <em>you</em>,” she corrected, running a hand through his increasingly-chaotic hair. No doubt, they both looked frightful. But Hermione found she didn’t care, with all the endorphins running through her. With the way he looked at her. “Which is a different thing entirely.”</p><p>His gaze softened. “Right.”</p><p>“Fred?”</p><p>“Hm?” He seemed to be looking at her lips again, and her tongue darted out to dampen them. What she wouldn’t give for some water—the steam that still swirled through the air in faint, fading wisps, the damp sweat slicking her body—all were a reminder of what she’d just felt and how much energy it had taken to get there. But looking at his eyes, dark and swirling, and feeling the length of him still pressed patiently against her stomach, made her want to re-prioritize.</p><p>She leaned in, pressed a soft kiss to his lips. Tried to think up something suitably insulting while his tongue skimmed the seam of her mouth. Failed.</p><p>“I can’t think of anything rude enough,” she breathed. Her muscles twitched as life came back into them, legs trembling; her inner walls fluttered with a sense of anticipation. “Fuck it. Shag me.”</p><p>His laugh rumbled through her chest. And the sound made her heart beat double-time. “Bossy.” The word got lost in her mouth, making her smile—teeth against lips, clashing in a pleasant way.</p><p>“You love it,” she teased, rocking her hips against him, only to be answered with a gratifying groan that cut straight down into her, clenching her core. A sweet, slow-spreading confidence dripped down her spine, controlling her movements and imbuing them with a sense of power and experience that they both knew she didn’t have. It didn’t seem to matter: his breath stuttered when she rocked harder, sliding slickly up and then down again, both shuddering when the tip of him nudged her clit. She whimpered. She felt light, befeathered, floating above the steam. Like the only thing holding her down was the sheer <em>weight </em>of wanting.</p><p>And then, she tried the magic word. Groaned it out, really. “<em>Please.</em>”</p><p> </p><p> </p><p>It was unbelievable, really.</p><p>If he’d possessed a Time Turner or a Pensieve or something, he might’ve traveled back to this moment over and over again just to witness the experience of Hermione Granger writhing in his lap, literally <em>pleading </em>with him to shag her. But as it was, he just had to commit the moment to memory as best he could, and not take it for granted. He watched her tongue dart between her teeth, her breasts bob up and down as she ground down on him, in the same way he might watch a trap, poised to spring. Even the minutest detail <em>meant </em>something, because it was her, and it was them, and it was possibly the only chance. He felt like he was fraying at the edges.</p><p>“Hermione,” he said, laden with warning. Saying her name still felt just as impossible as this whole situation. How had he gotten here? What series of right choices had he made to end up in this agonizing, <em>perfect </em>position? “Are you sure—”</p><p>“Yes.”</p><p>She certainly sounded sure. “But—”</p><p>“I promise I won’t change my mind,” she swore. “Or cry. Or insult your penis—” though he had to snort at <em>that</em>, because only she would just come out and <em>say </em>it like that, “or hold this against you forever, or trap you in some sort of arcane binding ceremony by saving your ejaculate. I’m not even sure how I’d go about doing that, actually…” The shifting of her hips conflicted <em>dreadfully </em>with the disturbing suggestion. But once again, he felt himself catch on her clit, her body pulling him inward despite his best efforts, sucking maddeningly at the underside of his cock. “And also, I won’t tell anyone.” His eyes leapt to hers, not realizing he’d been staring at her lips. “If you don’t want, I mean. We can just—”</p><p>Fred swallowed the words before they could gut him, kissing them right out of her mouth.</p><p>He kissed her until her jaw softened and her body melted against him, the incessant, mind-melting figure-eights from her hips easing off. Slackening distractedly. His lips captured hers in the hopes that it would leave some sort of permanent mark, some deep body-memory that she’d never, ever be able to shake, no matter who else she kissed. <em>Don’t think about it.</em> Their tongues tangled while he reached down and shifted himself, while she shuddered at the brush of contact and lifted her own hips, preparing herself to sink down onto him. Neither of them were breathing properly: he wondered if she felt lightheaded, too.</p><p>He only broke the kiss when he was poised to thrust up—when he felt that he’d sufficiently snogged her over-active mind into quietness. “You can do whatever ritual you like,” he mumbled against her lips. <em>Don’t say it. Don’t say it. </em>“I don’t need one.”</p><p>
  <em>Ah, well.</em>
</p><p>He felt her mouth part and her breath hitch as he notched himself inside her. Just barely. She was impossibly hot against his head, and he felt like he was being squeezed from the inside. In his chest, and everywhere else. He breathed out through his teeth, unsteady.</p><p>A little further. He could feel her muscles parting around him, even while her body stilled. Her mouth was an “o” shape, like he’d frozen her mid-word.</p><p>“Okay?” he managed to say, though how he unlocked his jaw to speak, he would never know. He held her hip like a lifeline, held her eyes like they had answers inside them. “Hermione,” he groaned when she didn’t reply, just stared at him in that dazed way. “I haven’t done—you have to tell me if you’re okay.”</p><p>She blinked rapidly, and then nodded. “Good. I… <em>oh</em>.” Her fingernails were digging into his neck, into his shoulder, where one of her arms stretched across his upper back. Anchoring herself, probably. Her eyes were wide. And he felt the muscles in her legs twitch against his thighs as she settled down lower—lower—swallowing him inch by inch in velvet, scorching heat. Her magic pushed at the edges of his, commingling in a way that was <em>nearly </em>as heady as the feeling of her. “<em>Oh,</em>” she repeated.</p><p>There was a whole pantheon he could’ve called on, but instead he said her name, more than a little brokenly.</p><p>It was just that he hadn’t <em>known.</em></p><p>Hermione pressed her lips together. Always so thoughtful—always calculating, while he couldn’t think much of anything. And then she leaned forward tentatively, brushing her mouth over the corner of his, like she hadn’t been snogging his face off only a moment ago. Shyly, almost. When he turned his head—the move slow and sudden all at once—catching her mouth with his, she made a rumbly little hum. An easy sound, like when she’d been humming to herself that night. He felt it in his ears, in his jaw, in the cage of his ribs; his tongue wanted to chase the sound down. He sucked her bottom lip between his. Kissed her like he meant it. Which he did.</p><p>This was, apparently, what she needed. Maybe he needed it, too. This point of contact in the churning storm of unfamiliarity. And still her hips sank further, body parting around him like warm butter, until he was finally—</p><p><em>Finally</em>—</p><p>His brain felt like it was being squeezed out through his cock, or <em>something </em>like that. Their kiss went sloppy, totally lacking the finesse he’d always had such pride in. But being inside her—<em>like this</em>—while his tongue was inside her too felt like nothing he had any sort of experience with. Nothing at all. It wasn’t <em>like</em> anything else.</p><p>And then she rose. And sank. And he groaned an embarrassing, earth-shattering sort of groan.</p><p>And <em>this </em>wasn’t like anything else either: feeling the warm water, and then Hermione, and then the water again. On and on, in an endless cycle, like being in some sort of battering, beautiful current.</p><p>There were things he probably should have been doing, he realized. Touching her breasts, her clit, helping her along somehow. But she was kissing him so persistently. So deeply. He couldn’t think of anything else except that he never wanted to stop doing this for one single second, ever.</p><p>Which was really inconvenient, since he’d be leaving soon.</p><p>That thought stirred something in him. His arms slipped up around her, nearly doubling around her narrow ribs. It was impossible—categorically <em>impossible</em>—to hold her close enough, but he had to try. As their kiss reached the absolute <em>limits </em>of what could still fall under that umbrella, turning into more of a prolonged exchange of air, he realized he was holding her so tightly that she couldn’t properly move, but she was still rocking her hips and emitting the tiniest of noises that battered his lips. And he was stupid—</p><p><em>So stupid </em>for waiting to do this. To tell her, and kiss her.</p><p>One hand pressed her to him, her back bowing against his palm like a tree in wind, pushing her breasts up against his chest; the other returned to her hip, taking control of the rhythm she seemed to be searching out. He felt like he didn’t have enough hands, and he certainly didn’t have enough words—<em>any </em>words, actually. Just the relentless impulse to keep going, even though it was a race toward the end of something and not the beginning.</p><p>When her whimpers became little winded noises, when her magic started to flare in rhythmic, solar bursts, when her head fell back just how it had before, when he felt her muscles squeezing all around him like a fist, he finally ground out, “You’re so—Merlin, you’re <em>perfect</em>, please—Hermione, I—”</p><p>When he said her name, her cunt fluttered and she cried out. And then: “Fred, <em>please.</em>” All breathless and tight. Like she was close. He just had to keep going, keep moving, keep lifting her up and pulling her down, even while the water swirled and sucked at her, creating a whirlpool at which they were the center.</p><p>He felt sparks of electricity down his spine, pops of light, like setting off a whole box of fireworks on a clear night, obliterating his ability to think with any degree of clarity about anything but this: <em>keep going. </em>“Don’t stop,” she said, and he thought she must be reading his mind.</p><p>“<em>Hermione,</em>” he said. His turn to plead.</p><p>Their voices—his speech, her moan—mixed and merged into a single sound, a Fred-and-Hermione sound, rising above the water. Ringing around the rafters in harmony. A mutual sound that neither of them had ever heard before and never would have if he hadn’t decided to prank the girl he—</p><p>“Oh, <em>fuck,</em>” he said, realizing. Or perhaps, admitting. She laughed at his obscenity, a short and sharp sound that turned into another moan, higher than the last. Tighter.</p><p>And then she was coming.</p><p>Which was lucky, because he was, too. One thrust, two, turning into a wobbly third. Washing the signals in his brain out, giving the impression of lightning striking the ground and leaving nothing behind. Obliterating in force. He felt his own magic flare outward, reaching. He groaned something—her name, probably—while the pressure and the build up of years gave way.</p><p>And then his head slumped forward onto her shoulder, just as hers had before. As she was slumping right now: exhausted, her mouth pressing faint kisses to his throat. The aftershocks rolled through her and into him, her hands running meaningless shapes all over his back and shoulders. And he held her close all the while, breathing in the scent of vanilla, and honey, and Hermione.</p><p>They stayed like that for what felt like an eternity; it seemed that she had as little interest in moving as he had. The massive taps still spat and sputtered into the relative silence, like sitting beside a waterfall. The bubbles had long since faded, leaving a milky foam over the far corners of the Prefect’s Bath. There was a sense of unreality to the stillness, and he wondered if he could fall asleep, right here in the Prefect’s Bath: a bath that had probably seen dozens of other couples just like them, doing things just like this, and dozens of blokes dozing afterward—and wasn’t that just <em>such </em>a cliché?</p><p>Maybe. But he decided he didn’t much care. Clichés were clichés for a reason.</p><p>Fred sighed happily, nuzzling his nose into Hermione’s neck, having to nudge some unruly hair out of the way. It took a moment to remember what he meant to say. “Good?” he asked, his voice unexpectedly hoarse.</p><p>“Mhm.”</p><p>She sounded nearly as loose and languid as he did, and a grin crept over his lips. Finally, that big brain of hers seemed to be slowing. He felt her sigh against him, and her hair tickled his nose.</p><p>And then came a mumbled, “Fred?”</p><p>“Hm?”</p><p>“What’s the third part of your plan?”</p><p>His brain felt sluggish and easy, like he’d just had a hard Quidditch practice, only about ten times more pleasant. Different muscles hurting, different endorphins running through his system. He didn’t catch her meaning right away. “What, love?”</p><p>“Your plan to leave school,” she clarified, voice steadying.</p><p>His stomach dropped like a stone, his arms freezing around her, but either Hermione could feel the change or she was just clever, and she pulled back to look at him. Her face was gentle: pink like a Puffskein and eyes glowing, but not judgemental. Or angry.</p><p>“We’re gonna nick a pair of brooms and fly away,” he said quietly. Just a statement of fact. He didn’t feel anything about it, just then. “In a haze of Wildfire Whiz-bangs and confetti. We figure it’s as good an advertisement for our shop as any.”</p><p>Hermione’s twitching not-smile comforted him a little. “You’ll be opening soon?”</p><p>“It’s all in motion,” he nodded. <em>I can’t stop it.</em> His stomach clenched, which had the accidental result of making his cock flex inside her. He chuckled when one of her brows twitched. “Sorry. We should probably get cleaned up.”</p><p>Hermione nodded, her expression turning determined. But he didn’t move, and neither did she—except to lean in again, pressing a lingering kiss to his lips. He didn’t have the energy to hold her there, even when his hands gamely slid up to cup her jaw. They felt tingly, like when he practiced wandless spells or accidentally bollocked up one of the Electric Shock Shakes.</p><p>When she pulled away again, her dark eyes blinked open. Wide and thoughtful. “I know why you need to leave,” she said, her small palm cupping his hand. “And I know you’ll do it brilliantly—you’ll be the talk of Hogwarts for weeks. But—”</p><p><em>Here it comes. </em>He tensed.</p><p>“I <em>will </em>miss you...”</p><p>And then she kissed him again. Lightly, hesitantly. <em>What?</em></p><p>“—for a few weeks, that is.”</p><p><em>What? </em>Another kiss. His head felt tripped up, like he was thinking too slowly for the speed of the world around him.</p><p>“Until I come see the shop for myself.”</p><p><em>Oh. </em>The corner of his mouth lifted in the space between kisses.</p><p>“And I expect a discount, for the idea about the sign. A <em>substantial</em>—” and her inner muscles tightened around him, making him shudder into an unexpected aftershock, “—discount.”</p><p>He felt his heart do all sorts of acrobatics as he held her close, snogging her soundly before pulling back with a smirk. “You drive a hard bargain, but I wouldn’t expect anything less.” He dropped little busses on her cheek, her nose, her jaw, her eyelids—on and on until it seemed like she might start laughing at his tickly attentions. “Anyway, your money’s no good to me, Granger. You pay in kisses.”</p><p>He was unsurprised, really, by how smug she looked. Hermione nodded decisively, like she’d done something very clever. And perhaps she had.</p><p>He had a feeling this witch would probably take him for all he was worth.</p><p> </p>
<hr/><p> </p><p>The tub is nearly full when he slips in the door, padding barefoot across the tile to where she sits, already soaking.</p><p>Her eyes leap to him immediately—not because he's half-undressed, though that maybe has a <em>little</em> bit to do with the glint in her expression. "Well?" she whispers, watching his face for a sign.</p><p>A smirk cracks his lips. "We got away with it," he whispers back.</p><p>Her belly swoops at his pleased, preening expression. He looks plenty smug enough, and she has to press her lips together to smother a smile. But she can't help lifting one damp arm out of the tub and stretching it toward him, open palm waiting for the touch of his. An invitation. "Get in, then!"</p><p>"Impatient little witch," he mumbles, slipping out of his loose pyjamas and sliding down into the tub. Hermione nods briskly. Damn right she is; she's been waiting for this all evening.</p><p>Once he's settled against the porcelain, his arms reach out to shift her hips, tugging her back until she connects with his chest. Body-warm and familiar shaped. She can feel his even heartbeat against her back.</p><p>It had been his idea to sneak a late night bath. <em>She'd</em> suggested catching up on sleep instead, or a quick shower shag, but Fred’s always had a propensity for trouble when given even a <em>moment </em>of free time. And anyway, she has to admit they don’t get to sneak around much anymore—living in their own place means there’s nobody much to catch them at anything.</p><p>"They're asleep?" she questions softly, running a hand over the faint hair on his arms. She can trace the familiar shapes in his freckles, pulling together lines and curves that form a map of the man she'd married.</p><p>His reply is muffled, spoken into the curve of her neck. "Mhm. Out cold."</p><p>"I'm impressed. I was barely brave enough to turn on the tap for fear of waking them," she says with a grin. "How long do you think we have?"</p><p>"Oh, I'd say…" He pretends to consider. "Twenty seconds—at the very least."</p><p>Hermione giggles, partly because his warm breath is tickling her neck, shooting goosebumps all over; partly because sometimes she just can't help it with him—but the sound transforms into a little whimper when his words turn into a kiss. Warm and open, expressed across her neck. Tilting her head to the side, she barely thinks of having to cover the love bite for work tomorrow. She just leans further into him, sighs. And whispers, "I love you."</p><p>His mouth releases the tendon he'd been nibbling with a little pop. "Are you sure? Thought I was a devious sneak determined to keep you from getting a good night's rest."</p><p>"You are," she agrees pleasantly.</p><p>"Hm. Interesting." He doesn't sound interested. He sounds like he wants to suck bruises onto her neck until she's writhing in his grip; he probably <em>will </em>do that, actually. She knows his favorite spots on her body, the places he likes to kiss best, because they’re <em>her </em>favorites. Places he's studied, picked out for their special reactions, and memorized over many, many nights like this one.</p><p>"Fred."</p><p>"Yes, love?"</p><p>"Remember the first night we did this, at Hogwarts?" She grins slyly as his body stills behind her, his mouth stopping it's perusal of her shoulder.</p><p>"<em>Remember?</em>" His voice, even muffled against her skin, is a bit loud against the tile of the bathroom, echoing over the high ceiling. They both freeze. And then, quieter: "How could I forget? You <em>nicked my clothes."</em></p><p>Hermione bites down hard on her lip, but the laugh still builds in her belly. It's like he can sense it, and his hands drop into the warm water, wrapping around her ribs. Not quite tickling her, but tempted to—dying to draw out the sound.</p><p>"<em>That's </em>the bit you remember?" she teases.</p><p>"I had to walk through the freezing halls of Hogwarts, <em>stark bloody naked.</em>" His voice is petulant, even as one hand—seemingly with a mind of its own and no interest in tickling—slips down between her thighs.</p><p>"Mm. Looked good doing it, too."</p><p>His laugh huffs into her skin, warming her all over. Or maybe that's his fingers, working her over. Probably both. She lets out a shaky breath.</p><p>"'Hermione," he says. It's strange, how it still makes her shiver. The way he says her name. Like he's practiced it, over and over in his head, before eventually working out the perfect way to say it. The way that would make her knees melt.</p><p>"Yes, Frederick?" she inquires politely.</p><p>"You're a menace, and I love you." The words are accompanied by the curl of one long finger, sliding up into her. She feels her legs wobble and is suddenly quite glad they didn't do this in the shower. Her knees are worthless at the moment, her chest heating and her brain starting to float. “<em>Please</em>,” she breathes, the magic word, and she feels him swelling against her back, hard and ready—</p><p>Until.</p><p>One sharp cry cuts through the fog. Long and mournful, it lasts only a few seconds. And they both go still. Waiting.</p><p>"Maybe—"</p><p>Fred starts, but he's cut off by a second, similar cry. It's a bit quieter—more inquisitive than upset—but they both know that their son always follows where his twin sister leads. They'll be making a racket in their usual unison before long.</p><p>She feels her husband sigh, and then tries not to sigh herself when his finger slips out of her. "I'll go," he says softly, pressing a final kiss to her neck. "Finish your bath." And then he hoists himself out of the deep tub, taking his warmth with him, as well as all her desire for a bath. It had been <em>his </em>idea, anyway.</p><p>"Only if you promise to come interrupt me later," Hermione replies. She watches the way he wraps the towel around his hips, wincing as it covers his erection. She grins at the way he runs a hand through his shaggy hair; it's longer on top and needs a trim. The familiarity makes her heart ache, makes her wonder how she possibly got this lucky. “I’ll get bored without you.”</p><p>And then he turns, winks over his shoulder. He's always been a horrible flirt, that Fred Weasley.</p><p>"Promise."</p><p>She’s so content, sinking back into the smooth, sage-scented bath, that she doesn’t notice—he’s nicked her clothes.</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>oh, by the way... i'm gingerteaonthetardis on tumblr—come talk to me about fremione, if you like!</p></blockquote></div></div>
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